The Radar Recordings
by ice-blue2
Summary: [Chapter 13 added] A half-century after the Korean conflict, the voice of a young Corporal reaches a young woman determined to solve the mystery of the Recordings.
1. Series 47358

[Introduction: This is a story idea that's been dancing around in my head for a while now, and I'm just starting to put it together, but I'm really proud of it and the way that it's heading. Hopefully you will find the format and the scenario interesting and different, I'm certainly having a lot of fun with it. Of course, Radar O'Reilly and the rest of the MASH 4077th belong to FOX, and, unfortunately, not to yours truly. All feedback appreciated. Enjoy!]  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The Radar Recordings: A Story of Intersecting Voices  
  
  
  
In late 1951 the United States Army created a program to ascertain the psychological effects of the Korean War on young American soldiers. Although the official purpose is unknown, rumor has it that the information was going to be used by the CIA in order to create the perfect Cold War warrior. Five top psychologists and psychiatrists were called to the front in Korea, where they examined a variety of enlisted men, usually in the form of recorded interviews. In December of 1951 the funding for this project was cut abruptly. The psychologists were pulled from Korea, and all of the information was destroyed or lost.  
  
Half a century later, the Miller Center of Public Affairs in Charlottesville, Virginia acquired some miscellaneous papers and recordings in a box labeled 'Series 47358.' Thought to be a part of the Presidential Recordings Program, the tapes were given to a graduate student to prepare for transcription. Upon listening, however, the grad student determined that the tapes were of a different nature entirely. She followed official protocol to clear the tapes from the Presidential Series records and returned to her work. The small box remained untouched on her desk for several weeks.  
  
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One weekend in February of 2001, Cavan Fitzgerald stopped by her office to pick up some of the files she was currently working on. She was flipping through her files with a heavy sigh when the 'Series 47358' box caught her eye. After tossing the files onto her desk, she picked up the box, took a seat on the carpet, and began to sort through its contents, which she arranged neatly in front of her.  
  
First came three reels of audio tape. Each reel was labeled with two sessions, the first with 'Sessions 1-2,' and so on, with corresponding dates in November of 1951. Cavan examined them and, finding them to be in good shape, she set them aside.  
  
Next came a few small black and white photographs. None of them were labeled, and she took her time flipping through them. The first photo was of a military camp of some sort, with a variety of non-permanent tents and other structures. There was a sign in one corner that Cavan couldn't quite make out, so she crawled on her knees to her desk to grab a magnifying glass. Squinting at the picture she was able to read "MASH 4077."  
  
"Mobile Army Surgical Hospital," she whispered, crossing her legs underneath her. Her eyes flicked to the tape reels. "1951. That's Korea. Hmm." She flipped to the next picture, which depicted a smiling young man with glasses. He was short and a little stocky, and he wore a knit cap with a little brim. Cavan used her magnifying glass to examine the stripes on his sleeve. "Corporal," she mumbled absentmindedly. Her eyes lingered on the picture for a minute - the young corporal's expression was so genuine it made her smile a bit. The next picture was of the same soldier. He still wore the knit cap and glasses, and now he also wore a thick scarf to guard against the snowflakes that were falling around him. He was looking away from the camera, a thoughtful half-grin on his face.  
  
"Who are you, Corporal?" Cavan addressed the photo as she flipped to the next one. This final picture showed a group of people in the camp. The young man was there, on the end of one row, along with five other men, and all of them were smiling. With her magnifying glass Cavan made out two Captains, a Colonel, another Corporal, and a man who appeared to be a priest. Cavan flipped through the pictures one more time before setting them beside the reels.  
  
The last items in the box were a set of papers, each with 'Series 47358' at the top. The papers appeared to be reports of some sort, listing the dates of the sessions on the recordings. There were other dates that didn't correspond to the reels Cavan possessed, but there were no names or locations, just sets of numbers. Some of the numbers repeated, she noticed - the same set of numbers appeared beside each of the November reel dates. Cavan quickly tired of the papers, though, and tossed them aside, leaning back against the wall.  
  
"What is this?" she mumbled to herself, picking up the photos again. "I don't do Korea," she mused, studying the mountains in the distance of the first picture. Casting a glance at the files she should have been working on, Cavan gave a little laugh and picked up the first reel of tape. She got to her feet and walked to her audio equipment, where she removed the tapes she had been transcribing a few days earlier. She set up the new tape, closed her door, pressed play, then sank sideways into her overstuffed armchair. After a few moments of crackling silence, a voice was heard.  
  
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[REEL 1 - Session 1, November 11, 1951]  
  
Voice 1: State your full name and rank, for the tape, please.  
  
Voice 2: Ah, Corporal Walter Eugene O'Reilly, sir.  
  
Voice 1: Thank you. Corporal, did your commanding officer explain this process to you?  
  
O'Reilly: Yes, sir. Well, Colonel Potter said you're gonna ask me some questions. Like an interview.  
  
Voice 1: Correct. Now, I want you to be totally at ease, here. I'm going to ask you some things, bring up some topics, and I want you to talk about them. This won't be a conversation - I'm not here to respond or give you feedback, I'll just guide you and record your words. How does that sound?  
  
O'Reilly: Oh, that's fine, sir. As long as it doesn't take too long, I've got work to do.  
  
Voice 1: I understand, Corporal. To that end, I'm going to meet with you for short periods of time over a few days. No session will be over an hour, and everything will be cleared with your superiors.  
  
O'Reilly: Ok...  
  
Voice 1: What I want you to do is to keep talking once you get started. There are no right or wrong answers, I'm just interested in hearing your thoughts, wherever they take you.  
  
O'Reilly: Ok. Uh, sir - you never said your name.  
  
Voice 1: For the purpose of these interviews, my name isn't important. If you want to call me something, Doctor is fine.  
  
O'Reilly: Ah, ok, Doctor.  
  
Doctor: Do you have any questions about the process?  
  
O'Reilly: Um...lemme see. You're a - a shrink, right? Ah, are you here to - to find out if there's something wrong with my head?  
  
Doctor: No, Corporal, but that's a good question. I'm not evaluating you on an individual basis, so to speak. I simply want your thoughts and they, along with the thoughts of other soldiers, will help us to understand certain aspects of the United States Army.  
  
O'Reilly: [silent for a moment] Ok, Doc.  
  
Doctor: Alright, then, let's begin. Are you comfortable?  
  
O'Reilly: Yeah.  
  
Doctor: Good. [sound of rustling papers] Now, Corporal O'Reilly, tell me about yourself. 


	2. Vox Clamantis In Deserto

[All MASH characters belong to FOX]  
  
  
  
[REEL 1 - Session 1, November 11, 1951, CONT.]  
  
Doctor: Good. [sound of rustling papers] Now, Corporal O'Reilly, tell me about yourself.  
  
O'Reilly: About myself? Oh, gee, uh. [clears throat] Well, I'm from Iowa, Ottumwa, Iowa. That's sure a long way from here, isn't it? [laughs quietly, with no response from the Doctor] Right. Um...I grew up on a farm, with my Ma, mainly. My Dad died when I was real little, but I've got lots of other family, too. There's Uncle Ed, he's been kinda like a dad to me. Huh. You know, it's funny, no one's really ever asked me to talk about myself. And now I'm kinda glad, 'cause it's hard to think of stuff to say. I guess I'm not real interesting or something. But I, uh, I know I'm supposed to keep talking, so, lessee. What else can I say about myself? [silence]  
  
Oh, I know. Remember I said I grew up on a farm? Well, heh, of course you remember, you were here and all, and it was only a few seconds ago. But, yeah, so we have a farm back in Ottumwa, and we have lots of animals there. That's what I like, mainly, is animals - I guess if I was to say one thing that described me, it would be that I like animals. I think you can tell a lot about a person by whether they like animals, you know? Like Major Burns, he's always real bent out of shape about my animals - see, I have some here. We get animals through here every so often, and I keep them sometimes, 'cause they don't have anyone else to take care of them. You know, maybe that's my way of doing what the surgeons are doing here. I'm not a doctor, so I can't take care of the soldiers, but there's other casu'lties of war, too. And everyone has to do what they're good at, right? Aw, that probably sounds pretty stupid. I feel real strange, sittin' here talking like this. It's kind of like I'm talking to myself, with you not talking and all.  
  
Doctor: You're doing fine, Corporal. You're doing just what I asked. You may continue, I'm listening.  
  
O'Reilly: Oh, ok. Well, then. [silence] What was I talking about? Oh yeah, animals and stuff. I figure it's good practice, too, me keeping animals and all, 'cause I know when I go back, when the war ends or whatever happens, I'll go back and work on the farm. It's kinda weird, 'cause when you think about it, this war's just a break in me being a farmer. I'll be a farmer my whole life, except for this little bit - well, hopefully a little bit - of time when I'm sittin' over here in Korea being Company Clerk for the 4077th. I bet no one's described the war like that yet, huh? Just the few years that Radar O'Reilly isn't being a farmer. Radar, that's me, in case you didn't know, Doc. Radar's my nickname, just 'cause sometimes I pick up on things before anyone else does, like a radar. I guess I shouldn't be calling this 'war' a war, though, should I? I should be calling it Police Action, that's what they say. I dunno. I'm just a kid from Iowa, but I still think war's war. The stuff I see and hear, it's bad enough that 'Police Action' doesn't really seem to do it justice. It's one thing to die for a war, but it's kinda hard to make 'dying in Police Action' sound good. Not that death ever sounds good, I guess.  
  
Boy, I got off the subject, didn't I? It's the whole thing of feeling like I'm talking to myself, I guess. It's kind of like I'm thinking out loud. You know how your thoughts just sort of ramble on like a train, from place to place? Now my mouth's doing that, I guess. I'm supposed to be talking about myself, right? Gee, I don't know what else there's to say about me, that I haven't already said. You'd do better to interview Hawkeye - that's Captain Pierce. I bet he'd have lots of good stories for you, he's a real interesting guy, and a real good surgeon. And Colonel Potter - he's been in the Army a real long time, cavalry and everything! I bet he has tons of stuff to say. [clears his throat]  
  
Oh, I was drafted. That's why I'm here and all, I guess that's something about me, right? I was drafted right after a turned 18, heck of a birthday, huh? I know there's lots of guys, maybe, that wouldn't go, or at least would try not to go. Not that I wanted to go, but there was never any question that I would go. Answering your country's kind of like answering you mom, you know - you do it whether you want to or not. Not that my Ma wanted me to come over here, but I guess you get what I'm trying to say. Heh, that's another reason you should get Hawkeye in here, he sure talks better than I do. But like I was sayin', I was drafted, so I went through basic training, and right after that I got shipped out here. I think a lotta people'd say I was lucky, to be here, Company Clerk, rather than fighting on the front. But the people that'd say that, they've never been here, 'cause I see more death and blood and wounded people coming through here than most people see in the entire war. I don't know what the numbers are, but I stopped counting a long time ago. It'd drive you crazy, or make you sick, or both, if you tried to keep count. But there's more that live that come through here, thanks to the surgeons. I wish I could do something like that, saving lives like they do. I don't even think they think anything of it, either. It's just what they do, you know?  
  
Me, I'm a clerk. I'm a good clerk, maybe the one of the best, at doing what I do and all. You could ask around here, people'd say I'm darn good at what I do, I keep the supplies coming through here, and I keep things running smooth, and it's no easy job. You can't lay around and sleep all day and get stuff done. But I'm still just a clerk. A clerk's no surgeon, or officer. There's some people that'll never let you forget it, either. Just 'cause you're a corporal, and a clerk, you're not as good as someone else. I think that's bunk, but you can't say that to a superior officer. 'Course, most of the officers here aren't like that, but there are definitely some. I have to remind myself sometimes that I'm good at what I do, and the Company Clerk's just as important as anyone else, just in a different way, maybe. I don't know. But there's still a voice that says 'you're just a clerk.' What am I trying to say? Boy, I have no idea.  
  
Anyway, so that's me. Iowa boy, likes animals, drafted by Uncle Sam, Corporal in the U.S. Army, Company Clerk at the 4077th. Those are the facts, I guess.  
  
[Click]  
  
Cavan switched the player off and returned to her spot on the carpet. She spread the pictures out in front of her, along with some of the papers.  
  
"So strange," she whispered to herself, separating out the papers marked with November 11-16. The sets of numbers still made little sense, but she assumed that one of the repeating numbers stood for the Corporal who was speaking, who was also presumably the young Corporal in the pictures.  
  
"Corporal Walter Eugene O'Reilly, eh? Called Radar," Cavan mused, picking up one of Radar's photos. "What was this all about?" The young man's voice echoed in her head - its strains of earnestness, the touch of naïveté, his objective treatment of the atrocities of war. She scratched her forehead absentmindedly. "Series 47358. Where did this stuff come from?"  
  
Cavan neatly stacked the papers and photos and placed them in the box along with the recordings. She set the box on her desk and picked up her files, glancing briefly at her watch as she did so.  
  
"Damnit!" she exclaimed, tucking the files under her arm. She stood in front of her window, which functioned as a makeshift mirror now that it was dark outside. Studying her reflection, she smoothed her dirty blond hair, which was pulled back casually into a pony-tail, and straightened the collar on her blue Oxford shirt. Her pale grey knee-length skirt was below the window line, but she reasoned that it looked fine enough. "It'll have to do," she mumbled, straightening the hem. "He's going to kill me anyway."  
  
She rushed out the door, files clutched under her arm, barely pausing to lock her office door. 


	3. The Man and the Echo

[All MASH characters belong to Fox. Radar Love to everyone for the nice reviews.]  
  
  
  
"You're late." He was already seated at the table, a wine menu in one hand.  
  
"Sorry, Jack." Cavan leaned in to kiss her boyfriend before taking the seat across from him at the small table.  
  
"It's alright. Listening to your creative excuses has become one of the more consistent parts of our relationship." Jack Washburn delivered the comment with a smile, but his brown eyes held a little aggravation. "You know I'm on call tonight. I'll probably have to go to the hospital after dinner.  
  
"They're not creative," Cavan protested, "they're true." She was relieved when the waiter arrived to take their dinner orders. When the waiter left Jack leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.  
  
"So do I not get to hear your creative excuse?" he said with an odd smile. Cavan rolled her eyes. "What? I didn't get mad, did I? Don't I deserve to hear why you were a half hour late to dinner?"  
  
"I was in my office, and I came across this box. I started listening to the tapes that were inside, and I lost track of time, I guess." She took a sip of water, her eyes darting around the room.  
  
"What kind of tapes?"  
  
"I'm not sure, actually," she admitted. "They're recordings of this soldier at a mobile hospital unit in Korea in 1951. I don't know where they came from."  
  
"Korea? What does that have to do with German spies in Ireland during World War II?"  
  
"Nothing."  
  
"So it wasn't part of your thesis?"  
  
"No. Just something that was originally thought to be part of the Presidential Recordings." Cavan waited as Jack processed the information. She could actually see him fighting the urge to comment - she could hear him in her head: So you're thirty minutes late to dinner because you got distracted by a tape you know nothing about that has nothing at all to do with your work. But he kept silent. "I'm really sorry, Jack. You know me."  
  
"Yes, I do," he said, exhaling through his teeth. The sommelier delivered the wine, and after the tasting Jack raised his glass. "Cav, if you weren't late every so often, if you didn't get distracted by irrelevant things that appear on your desk, I'm not sure I would love you so much." Cavan bristled at the word 'irrelevant,' but she clinked glasses with him nonetheless.  
  
"Thanks, Jack." Dinner continued without event, and, as expected, Jack was called to the hospital directly after dinner. After paying the bill, Jack and Cavan gathered their things and walked out to the parking lot.  
  
"I'll see you tonight, Cav," Jack said, resting a hand lightly on the small of her back as they paused beside her Jeep.  
  
"Don't be too late," she returned.  
  
"Hey, you owe me thirty minutes," he joked. "But I won't be too late."  
  
"Yes. Dr. Farrell is always punctual," Cavan laughed, kissing him and climbing into her Jeep. He waited and waved at her as she pulled out of the parking space and drove out of the parking lot before he walked to his Mercedes.  
  
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"So how was dinner with the Right Honorable Dr. Jack Washburn?"  
  
Cavan looked up from her desk to find her friend Katharine standing in the doorway.  
  
"For the purpose of preserving our friendship, I'm going to pretend you didn't say that," Cavan responded with a wry grin. Katharine laughed out loud and entered the office, slumping down in Cavan's armchair.  
  
"You know I'm only joking. So he hasn't proposed yet?" Cavan rolled her eyes.  
  
"No, thank God." Katharine raised an eyebrow at her friend, causing Cavan to laugh. "Don't get me wrong, I love him and all, it's just, ah...I get this terrible feeling in my stomach whenever he wants to 'take me out to dinner someplace special.'" She got a contemplative look on her face.  
  
"Wow. Hmm. Well, I've lost interest, are you ready for lunch?"  
  
Cavan gave a loud, delighted laugh, shaking her head. Her friend watched her pointedly, sitting up in the armchair as if suddenly realizing she might wrinkle her suit. Katharine Reese worked as a lawyer for several nonprofit organizations in town, and despite the fact that her schedule was extremely flexible, she always dressed as the epitome of professionalism.  
  
"Yeah, hold on." Cavan put her things away and joined her friend to walk down the street to a local deli, where they ordered their usual lunches. They took a small table by the window, where they could watch people walk by in the cold February air from the snug warmth of the deli.  
  
"What do you know about the Korean War?" Cavan asked suddenly between bites of her sandwich. Katharine furrowed her brow and took a long sip of her soda.  
  
"Well, you know, the second book I wrote was about the Korean War." Cavan snorted. "No, c'mon, what do I know about the Korean War? Whatever I learned in history class in high school. Let's see...the Forgotten War. Part of the containment policy of the Cold War, right? Um...we lost, right? Or, at least, no one won decisively. It was a big military disaster or something. Maybe I'm confusing it was Vietnam, though."  
  
"No, you're right. I don't know that much about it either. I hate Cold War history."  
  
"Hmm," Katharine considered. "Why are you asking?"  
  
"I came across these tapes of a U.S. soldier in Korea. A really mysterious set of tapes, some doctor interviewing this Corporal about nothing in particular. I've only listened to a little bit of it, but it seems like this guy was interviewing lots of soldiers over there, and he was going to compile all that information for some purpose or another. I haven't listened to all of it yet, though."  
  
"You've got Cold War guys in the history department, don't you?" Katharine asked. "I'm sure they could tell you more than I could."  
  
"Yeah," Cavan groaned. "I hate asking those guys questions, though. They'll go on for hours." Katharine laughed at her friend.  
  
"I guess it's your only choice, though. This part of your research, or your work at the Center?"  
  
"No. It's completely unrelated. I should give it to someone who can work on it, I guess, but...I don't know, it's just so...compelling. And if I turn it into National Archives it'll just disappear."  
  
"Ah." Katharine watched Cavan carefully. "Well, I wish I could help you. Sounds interesting," she responded after swallowing the last of her sandwich. "Let me know if anything comes of it."  
  
"Heh, you know I will," Cavan said with a laugh, crumpling the paper from her sandwich into a ball and tossing it into the nearest trashcan.  
  
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Cavan threw her things down onto the floor of her office, walked to her audio equipment, hesitated for a second, and then pressed play. She slumped into her armchair, pulling her legs underneath her.  
  
[REEL 1 - Session 1, November 11, 1951, CONT.]  
  
O'Reilly: Anyway, so that's me. Iowa boy, likes animals, drafted by Uncle Sam, Corporal in the U.S. Army, Company Clerk at the 4077th. Those are the facts, I guess. [silence, followed by rustling of papers]  
  
Doctor: Good, good. [sound of pen on paper] You're doing quite well, Corporal, but I'd like you to expand on a few issues, if you could. First of all your family. [silence] Yes, go ahead.  
  
O'Reilly: Gee, what'd I already say about my family? I think I said it's just me and Ma at home mostly, on account of my dad dying when I was real young. He was real old - he had me when he was real old, so it wasn't that he died young or something. My whole family's in Iowa, pretty much, I guess the O'Reilly's decided it was a pretty good place to settle down. And it is, I guess. Good farming land, and all, but you have to be willing to put a lot of work into it. I feel real bad being over here, 'cause I know my Ma's gotta find other help for the farm. Uncle Ed's running a lot of it, but he's getting on in years, so I know it's hard on him. But that's what family's do, right? They step in and take care of each other, 'cause that's what family's for. If you didn't have that, it'd be a lonely life. Or a hard life. Or both.  
  
Some people are loners in life, you know? They'd rather not get help from anyone. It's kinda like it's an insult to them, to get help, 'cause they think it means they're weak or something. Hawkeye can be like that. And Major Houlihan, she can be like that, too, I think 'cause she's a woman with a high rank, and maybe she thinks if she asks for help, people'd think less of her rank. I guess you'd call that pride. But when people are like that, it makes me wonder what their family was like sometimes. 'Cause if you weren't raised to think that help's an ok thing to give and receive, then maybe you wouldn't be used to it. Me, I'm not afraid to ask for help. Embarrassed, sometimes, maybe, to ask for help on certain things, but I'm only embarrassed because of the topic, not 'cause I don't want the help. You know, stuff like, um, you might call matters of the heart. I'm not so good with that stuff, so I ask Hawkeye and Captain Hunnicut.  
  
I've never thought of myself as a loner, 'cause that kind of thing, that's by choice. Sometimes you're alone, but that doesn't always mean you're a loner. I don't have a whole lotta close buddies here. I've got friends, yeah, but you see how Hawk and B.J. - that's Captain Hunnicut - they're real tight, real good buddies, always joking around with each other. They always treat me real good, but they treat me kinda like a kid brother, not like a real buddy. We all go out for drinks, or to play poker, with some of the other guys, like Klinger, or Colonel Potter, or Father Mulcahy, and everyone's real nice to me, but most of the time I feel like I'm tagging along. And I guess that's okay. I'm not lonely here. And I figure as long as you're from a good family, you're never lonely no matter where you are in the world, you know?  
  
Sometimes I see the people here like family. Or - in my head they kinda fit into a mold a family might make. I dunno if that makes any sense. But, see, like I said how Hawkeye and B.J. treat me like a kid brother. And to me, with me asking them for advice and all, they're like older brothers. And I guess Major Houlihan, she's kinda like an older sister - you know how older sisters never want to have anything to do with their little brothers? [laughs] Yeah, that's kinda how it is with us. Major Burns, he doesn't fit into the family, mainly 'cause I don't want him to. He's, ah - well, he's very proud of the fact that he's a Major. I guess if I was forced to include him, he'd be the older sister's no-good boyfriend. [laughs, then clears throat nervously] Ah, yeah, anyway. And Klinger, he's kinda like the crazy cousin that everyone loves, even though they might get kinda annoyed with him sometimes. He's got a good heart, though.  
  
The easy one - that's Colonel Blake. He used to be the C.O. here, but he got his orders to go back home, but, ah...he was killed. His plane was shot down over the Sea of Japan, see. But he was like a dad to me, 'specially 'cause my dad died when I was so little. Colonel Blake treated me real good, and I took good care of him, too. We were a good team, him and me, and I was real sad to see him go. [silence]  
  
You know...I kinda knew he wasn't gonna make it home. It sounds real strange and all, but I said before that people call me Radar 'cause I sometimes know things before they happen. It's not really like I'm psychic, or whatever they call it. It's not like I get dreams of what's gonna happen in the future, or like someone's telling me what's gonna happen. It's like...  
  
Well, I guess it is like a radar, that's the only way to describe it. A radar's got a circle around it, you know, kinda like a range where the radar can see. And some radars are stronger than others, can see further. It's kinda like I've got one of those radar screens up in my head, and everything that happens around me comes in and out of that field, and 'cause my radar's stronger than most people's, I pick up on things first - like phones ringing or the choppers coming. Those things just come onto my radar, so I start reacting, and everyone else picks up on it afterward. I dunno. Maybe most people have their radars shut off or something, and I'm the only one who has mine turned on.  
  
But anyway, I kinda knew Henry - that's Colonel Blake - wasn't gonna make it, 'cause if he was gonna make it, if he was gonna make it all the way back to Illinois from Korea, I'd see a straight line on my radar screen from here to there, simple as that. But even before he left, his little blip on the radar screen, it just sort of disappeared, like it was gonna leave here and then disappear into thin air. It wasn't heading back to Illinois or nothin'. I mean, it's not like that. It's not like I have a real radar screen in my head with little green blips, I bet you really think I'm crazy now. But that's just the best way to describe the way I feel things in my head, I guess.  
  
I don't know how I got to that. All I was trying to say was that Henry Blake was like a dad to me in a lotta ways, and I was real torn up when he was killed, 'cause it was like I'd lost two dads then. Like I'd lost the dad of my real family back home, and then I lost the dad of this new family in Korea. We've got Colonel Potter now, he's a real good man, good officer, good surgeon. He's kinda like a dad, too, but like a dad to the whole unit, not just to me. I guess maybe that's better, though. That way the whole family's got a dad, not just one member.  
  
I'm sorry, Doc, I know I'm rambling on and on now and not making any sense. I didn't get too much sleep last night, we had wounded come in around 3 in the morning, and I've been up since then.  
  
Doctor: You did just fine, Corporal. In fact, I think we are finished for the day.  
  
O'Reilly: Oh? Oh, good. I mean, no offense, Doc, I just get tired of hearing the sound of my own voice for so long.  
  
Doctor: I understand. Now, Corporal O'Reilly, I'd like to meet with you here at 3 o'clock tomorrow afternoon, barring unforeseen circumstances. Is that clear?  
  
O'Reilly: Yes, sir.  
  
Doctor: And one more thing, Corporal - you are not to discuss this matter with anyone in this unit or beyond it. It is a highly classified matter, and a breach of this agreement will result in swift punishment. Understood?  
  
O'Reilly: Yes - Yes, sir.  
  
Doctor: Excellent. Good afternoon, Corporal. You are free to go.  
  
[sound of footsteps, followed by a 'click' as the machine was switched off] 


	4. Distance

[All MASH characters belong to Fox (insert Fox theme music here)]

Cavan switched off her audio equipment and sank back into her armchair, a thoughtful look on her face. Her eyes flicked over to a bookshelf against the wall, where there were several small pictures in frames. One picture in particular seemed to draw her interest – a bucolic scene of several horses grazing in a very green field with rolling hills in the background. A knock on the door woke her from her reverie.

"Come in," she called, standing up and moving over to her desk. The door opened to reveal an older man of about fifty, in a tweed suit and bow tie. 

"Ah, Miss Fitzgerald. Are you busy?" 

"Oh, no, Mark." A slightly panicked look came across Cavan's face, as if she were trying to remember something. 

"You must have forgotten about our meeting today." 

"Oh! Shoot. I'm so sorry, Mark." Cavan turned a little pink. She had indeed completely forgotten about her meeting with her thesis advisor. "I just...got a little distracted." She absentmindedly wondered how many times she had used that excuse.

"That's fine, Cavan. Do you mind if I have a seat?" She shook her head and he sat in the armchair. Cavan sat behind her desk. "You do have your list of sources for me..." he prompted. 

"Yes..." Cavan dug around in the papers on her desk until she found what she was looking for. "Here you go," she said, passing him the stapled papers. He flipped through the list quickly before setting it on his leg and looking back up at her. 

"How is your work at the Center going? Do you find you have time to do your work here as well as your thesis work?" Cavan waved her hand casually. 

"Yes, sure. It's a bit of a task, but I'm up to it." Her advisor watched her with thinly veiled skepticism, taking a deep breath. 

"I'll take your word for it, Cavan, but you're pushing your deadlines. Of course there are no strict rules governing this...but I get the feeling lately that your thesis hasn't been your highest priority. And if you expect to turn in a product of the highest caliber, I think your research _should_ be your highest priority." Cavan nodded as she listened, biting her lip. "How _is_ your research?" 

"Fine," she lied. "I'm going back up to Archives II this weekend."

"Good," Mark replied after hesitating a moment. "I expect to be closely informed of your progress, of course." 

"Of course." Cavan tapped her fingers nervously on the desktop. Her advisor stood up and moved toward the door. 

"Good afternoon, Miss Fitzgerald. And good luck with your research this weekend. I'll be in touch." 

"Thanks. And I'm sorry about the meeting," she said earnestly. He nodded and slipped out the door, closing it behind him. "Damnit," she whispered, shaking her head. "Stupid Cavan."

She spent the next thirty minutes reorganizing the papers and files on her desk and making a research schedule for the weekend. Eventually, however, her eyes returned to the framed photograph of the horses, as well as the picture beside it of a grey-haired man with a ruddy face standing beside a stone wall. Cavan put her pen down and leaned back in her chair. After a few minutes she picked up her phone and dialed a number. 

"Hallo," came a man's voice on the other end. 

"Da," she replied, a distracted look on her face. There was a split second of silence. 

"Cavan?" There was still a touch of a brogue to the man's accent, despite his decades of living in the States. 

"Yeah." Another uncomfortable silence followed. 

"Do you need something, Cavan?" her father finally asked. Cavan fiddled with the pen on the desk. 

"Ah, no, I was just calling to say hello. To, um, check on the foals and brood mares." She hoped her voice sounded convincing. 

"Cavan, are you sure you're not needing something? Half the mares have foaled, and the rest are doing fine." 

"Good. Um...did you have a good Christmas, Da?" There was a noise on the other end like a cough of some sort. 

"Christ, Cavan, that was nearly two months ago."

"Yeah, I know, but..." The pen tapped on the desktop. "I just hadn't caught up with you in a while."

"True, that is, Cavan, but now is not the best time to start this." Cavan imagined her father was rubbing his eyes wearily. "I have to go help Seton with the yearlings." 

"Ok, Da, I'll let you go. It was good talking to you." Yet another brief silence. 

"Good talking to you, my girl," he said finally, in a softer tone. 

After she hung up Cavan stared at the various files and papers on her desk. She stared at the picture of the horses grazing. She stared at her audio equipment. Finally, flipped through her memo book until she reached her desired page, then picked up the phone again and dialed. 

"National Archives, College Park Maryland." 

"Yes, I'd like to speak to the archivist who'd be in charge of...the Korean War era." 

"One moment please." 

Cavan suppressed any feelings of guilt as she waited for the archivist to come on the line. She very carefully kept her eyes away from any of her thesis research. 

"This is Scott Edwards." 

"Ah, yes, and you're in charge of the Korean War?" 

"Cold War, 1950's era, so yes," he replied. 

"Good. I'm coming up there this weekend, and I have some questions for you."

"Shoot."

"What do you know about Series 47358?" 

--------------------------------------

[REEL 1 – Session 2, November 12, 1951]

Doctor: Welcome, Corporal O'Reilly. 

O'Reilly: Ah, thanks. I guess. 

Doctor: Today will function much the same as yesterday. I'll give you a topic, you will discuss it, there are no right or wrong answers. Again, please state your full name and rank, for the recording.

O'Reilly: Corporal Walter Eugene O'Reilly. 

Doctor: Thank you. Let's begin. Yesterday you discussed yourself, Corporal. Now I want to focus on a broader subject. What are your thoughts on war? [silence]

O'Reilly: Boy, that's a big question, isn't it? Uh. [clears throat] I think...that the Communists are un-American and, ah, something that should be stopped. 'Cause of their, ah, un-Americanness. And so this, um, police action is...good?

Doctor: Corporal, I'm not trying to identify communist sympathizers here. Nothing you say here can be used to hinder your career. I simply want your thoughts on war in general. If you like, you don't have to talk about Korea at all. In fact, that might be better, if you are feeling nervous about it. 

O'Reilly: Oh, me, uh, nervous? Nah. I just...ok, I'm a little nervous. We just hear these rumors, you know, about spooks trying to wash out soldiers they don't think are good enough. This place isn't my favorite place in the world, but I don't wanna get washed out, Doc. This whole thing – you asking me these questions and everything, it's just a little weird. Sorry.

Doctor: No need to apologize, Corporal, I understand your concern. I can assure you, however, that I have no intention of washing anyone out of the Army. My intention is the same as when I first expressed it to you. I'm simply interested in your thoughts on a variety of subjects. Your thoughts, along with the thoughts of other young men like you, will be used so that we can better understand the American soldier. 

O'Reilly: Oh, ah, ok. The American soldier. 

Doctor: That's right. And if you'd rather not talk about the war today, we can discuss something else. [sound of rustling papers] In fact, that seems the best plan. Corporal, why don't you talk about your goals in life. [silence] Corporal? Is there something wrong?

O'Reilly: Choppers.

Doctor: I don't hear anything. 

O'Reilly: Wait for it. [silence, followed 10 seconds later by faint sound of helicopters] I have to go. 

Doctor: I understand. I'll –

O'Reilly: You'll be a little late tomorrow, I'll see you at four. [sound of footsteps, then a door slamming]

Doctor: -be a little late tomorrow, so why don't we meet at four? [silence] Remarkable. [click]


	5. The Everlasting Voices

[All MASH characters belong to Fox, I'm just borrowing them. I promise I'll return 'em safe and sound]

"Now, I've got the guides to two record groups for you." Scott Edwards set pushed two large binders across the table towards Cavan. "This is record group 407, which contains reports relating to Korean War combat operations. A lot of this will be irrelevant, things like reports on economic matters, education, and natural resources in Korea, but there are also intelligence reports that might contain information you're interested in." Cavan nodded. "And this," he said, resting a hand on the other binder, "is the guide to record group 319, which contains records of the Historical Services Division relating to army organizations and operations. Of course, it covers the years 1918 through 1965 – so you'll have to wade through a lot of things you don't care about." He opened the binder. "But there's also reports and other records on the history, organization, and functions of various Korean War commands and units." 

"Wow. Thank you," Cavan said, her eyes wide as she realized the immense task before her. 

"Series 45378, right? That's what you said you were looking for?" The archivist had intense grey eyes that he monitored Cavan with. 

"Yeah. Do you know anything about it?" 

"I've heard...rumors about a number of programs during the Cold War – from brainwashing to mind-altering drugs." He leaned forward onto his elbows. "Series 45378's no different. It was actually one of the more benign programs, from what I gather. They interviewed soldiers, with the intent of gathering the information and figuring out the demographics, the formula if you will, for the perfect Cold War soldier. The cryptic part is what they were going to do once they actually had the information – whether it would be used for recruitment, or for programs that would, ah, create conditions in which the 'ideal' soldier could be cultivated." Cavan nodded as she processed the information.

"Sounds sinister," she commented. Scott laughed and pushed back a bit from the table. 

"I've never actually seen anything that references the Series, so without facts we can make it out to be as sinister as we like." He cleared his throat. "I've never had someone come in here looking for the Series, though. How did you hear about it?"

"Oh, um." Cavan bit her lip as she tried to decide how much to tell the archivist. "I work at the Miller Center in Charlottesville, and the subject came up in reference to the Presidential Recordings."

"Miller Center? I thought the Recordings project was focused on a later date than that. Post JFK." There was no accusatory tone to his voice, but Cavan felt guilty nonetheless. 

"Well, to be honest," she began, "we got a box with photos, recordings, and papers from the series." Scott leaned back in his chair, eyebrows raised. He was clearly astonished. "They were thought to be a part of the Presidential tapes."

"Where in the world did they come from?"

"They were given to us by an estate, I think."

"Incredible. Tapes, photos, papers?"

"Yeah, all pertaining to one particular Corporal in a MASH unit in Korea, in 1951." Cavan watched the archivist as he stared at the table for a moment, thinking. 

"1951. That's right, because, if I can remember correctly the program was only in existence for...a few months, before the funding was abruptly cut at the end of 1951."

"Well, these recordings are all from November of 1951." 

"Have you listened to them all?" Scott was clearly riveted. 

"Not yet, I, uh," Cavan laughed nervously, "I'm doing this on my free time, which is limited, with my thesis and my work at the Center." Scott laughed as if he understood. "I've listened to the first and second sessions." 

"What are they like, the interviews?"

"They're a little strange, actually," Cavan confided. She was relaxing now, enjoying the fact that she had someone to talk about the tapes with. "The interviewer is a man who wants to be called "Doctor" – he never gives his name. And the Corporal he's interviewing is this farm boy from Iowa who has some sort of sixth sense when it comes to predicting things like the choppers arriving. His nickname's Radar." 

"A nameless interviewer, a soldier with a sixth sense..." He shook his head in disbelief. "That's better than anything I could have imagined," he added with a laugh. 

"I was hoping to find a little more about the project here. I, ah, told you I don't have a lot of free time, but I just can't resist. And since I was coming up here to look at 226 anyway..."

"Excellent," Scott responded. "We need more researchers like you, ignoring your other commitments in order to follow leads that'll get the good stuff filtered out of these records we haven't sorted yet." Cavan laughed with him. "But 226, that's...the declassified OSS records, right? Listen to me, I've been working here too long, haven't I?" 

"I've been coming here too long. The security guards know me by name," Emma returned. 

"Wait'll they start asking how your research is going," Scott joked. "What are you doing with the OSS records?"

"Research for my doctoral thesis – German espionage in Ireland during World War II."

"Nazi spies in neutral Ireland. Interesting. Hey, you know I can help you on this Korean stuff, if it'll give you more time." Cavan considered the offer. "I see you look nervous." He smiled, leaning forward a bit. "You think I'm going to steal your lead and run straight to a publisher," he teased. Cavan gave the loud, delighted laugh usually reserved for her best friend Katharine.

"Would you, please? Then I could just read the book, and that would be so much easier. Seriously, you're welcome to look into this, if you really want to. I don't want to trouble you." 

"No," Scott waved a hand dismissively. "I'm extremely interested. And this is, after all, my area of expertise, you could say." 

"Well!" Cavan opened her binder and flipped through until she found the paper she wanted and removed them. "This is all I have with me. It's a rough transcript I made of the tapes I've listened to so far. The rest – the photos and papers and tapes – is back in Charlottesville." 

"This is great," he said, taking the papers and scanning over them. "You must really be interested in this, to devote so much of your clearly limited free time..." He watched Cavan, who remained deep in thought for a moment. 

"I know. But – I know this sounds silly – there was just something about his voice. And his face, in the photographs. I just got...hooked." She turned pink, thinking her explanation rather sophomoric. But the archivist just smiled like he understood. 

"I tell you what," he replied, scribbling something down on the back of a requisition form. "I actually have to leave early today, so I'll miss you when you leave here. But here's my number and extension and email, and feel free to call me if you stumble across anything else. Do you want me to call you if I find anything?" 

"Why don't you email me, that would probably be easier, right?" She jotted down her email, with her phone number for good measure. The exchanged information and Cavan looked at her watch. 

"Oh, my documents should be here by now." She stood up and extended a hand. "Thank you so much, Scott, for your help. I can't wait to hear what you find – and I'll be in touch." Scott shook her hand, smiling. 

"My pleasure, Cavan. Let me know what comes up on those tapes. And good luck with your research." 

"Thanks." 

------------------------------------

Cavan's Sunday morning run usually took her through the pretty neighborhoods behind the university, through the campus itself, and eventually up the big hill that housed the observatory. But she unwittingly veered off route this morning, crossing Ivy Road and continuing out the curving hills of Old Ivy, to the Miller Center. When she reached the top of the big hill, she paused and stretched on the front lawn of the brick mansion that housed the Center. It was a warm day, for February, with bright sun and no wind, and Cavan felt a little twinge of desire for spring. 

She entered the building and went into her office, where she immediately started the audio equipment and sat on the floor to do sit-ups. 

[REEL 2 – Session 3, November 13, 1951]

O'Reilly: Corporal Walter Eugene O'Reilly, sir.

Doctor: Thank you Corporal. Do you recall what we were preparing to discuss yesterday afternoon?

O'Reilly: Uh...war?

Doctor: No, we changed our topic. I'd like you to discuss your goals in life. 

O'Reilly: My goals in life?

Doctor: Yes, Corporal.

O'Reilly: Oh. Ok. Gee...I don't know if I have any goals, I guess I just figured there was stuff I was supposed to _do_ in life, and I figure I'll do them. So I guess maybe they count as goals. Or maybe not. 

Like, ah, when I go home I'll take over work on the farm. I don't know if that's a goal, but it's something I'm gonna do. 'Cause that's what my dad did, and it's not like I'm gonna have some fancy education to be a doctor or something like that. Heck, I didn't even graduate from high school, though I do kinda have a diploma. But when I think 'goals in life,' that reminds me of someone who wants to, I dunno, make a million dollars or something. Or write a book. Or be the president. I don't have any goals like that, maybe I just figure they're for people other than me. 

Well...let me think about it again. Goals in life. I guess you could think about that in a lotta different ways, huh? I mean, there's stuff I wanna do, other than career type stuff. Like, ah, I wanna get married. You know, find a girl and settle down and have kids. Maybe that's a goal. It's something I wanna do. But it's also something I figure I'm supposed to do, 'cause that's what my everyone does. 'Course, that's not to say I don't want to – heck, every guy wants to find a girl, right? [laughs] I don't think I'm very good at it, though. Least, I haven't had a whole lotta success. 

What's the difference between goals and dreams? Is there a difference? Or, um, wha'd'you call 'em...fantasies? Sometimes, sometimes I imagine I'm a surgeon here. Isn't that silly? But it just...I dunno, I guess it just seems so much better than being a company clerk. Or, not 'better,' but...well, yeah, better in the way that it's more important, more, ah, useful. Saving lives – that's big. That's important. I mean, really saving lives with your hands, it's kinda amazing. And people, they look up to you when you're a surgeon. Least, a good surgeon, like Hawkeye or BJ. People, they wanna _be_ a surgeon. They might look at you and say, 'gee, I wish I was a doctor.' No one looks at me and says 'gee, I wish I was a company clerk, just like Radar.' But I'll never be a surgeon. And it's not that I really want to be one anyway, I just sometimes imagine that I was, and what that'd be like. That's more like a fantasy, not like a dream or goal, maybe. 

Oh, sometimes I think of what it'd be like if I owned my own business. I don't know what it'd be. Maybe a feed store or something. That seems like a good thing to do. Maybe...yeah, maybe that's a goal of mine, for some day. I mean, I don't know if I could do it, or if I will do it, but I guess I'd like to do it. Just a small store, with a couple-a people working for me, stocking shelves and stuff. I think I'd be good at something like that, you know, managing something like that, 'cause I'm good at managing stuff here, and making sure we have enough of this and that. And figuring out where to get what. Who to talk to. I figure it's kinda like running a business. You gotta be good with people, and with remembering what to do when. Keeping stuff straight. Yeah, maybe that's a goal then, owning my own business. Just the owning it part, not so much making lots of money, though there's nothing wrong with that. [silence]

Sometimes...sometimes, when I'm lying in bed, trying to go to sleep at night, I think, _all_ I want is to go home. That's it. That's all I want in life. Nothing else matters, I just want to get out of here, go someplace I can't hear shells bustin' a couple'a miles away or closer. I'm not always thinking that, though, just sometimes. You think a lotta things when you're lying in bed trying to go to sleep, at least I do. I think about...being scared. Being lonely. Being sad. You can sorta hide that kind of stuff during the day, 'cause you're thinking about other things, and you're always busy, and things aren't always bad. We do lots of fun stuff, like play poker and have parties, you know, when there's not wounded coming in. So I'm not saying I'm always unhappy, I'm just trying to say that it's at night that those sorts of things hit you, 'cause you're not doing anything to keep you from thinking about them. Luckily most nights you're so dead tired you don't have the energy to even think. But sometimes you do. 

I don't know what I'm saying. I guess sometimes at night when I get to feeling sad or scared, I try to think about other things, like being home, and how nice it'll be when I get back. And I think about all the stuff I do. Those are little goals. Like see all my family and friends. That seems like a pretty small goal, but when you're someplace like this, it sure seems a lot bigger. 

The thing about me wanting to go back and be a farmer, I don't know if that's really what I want to do for the rest of my life, but it's...I guess it's sorta comfortable to think about. 'Cause that's sorta the way things work, the way they have worked. It's the kind of goal that isn't exciting, but it makes you feel good, kinda calm, like you're in your mom's kitchen or something. I don't know if that makes any sense at all, probably not. It's kind of like...when you've been up for 48 hours straight, with wounded coming in, and shells going off, you think to yourself, "when all this is over, I'm going to go to my bunk and sleep. Just sleep." Well, when all this is over, when I get back from Korea, I'm going to go home and be a farmer. Just a farmer. It's kind of like that. 

I guess... [silence]...I guess that's it. For goals and stuff. Unless you want me to say something else. 

Doctor: No, Corporal, that was more than sufficient. [sound of rustling papers] Thank you, and I'll see you tomorrow at the normal time. 

O'Reilly: Right-o, Doc. 

[click]


	6. Fears and Worries

****

[All MASH characters belong to Fox. Again, thanks for the nice reviews. I'm having a lot of fun writing this story (and yes, I do know where it's going), so it's nice to get such positive feedback. Enjoy.]

Cavan stepped back from her bookshelf, where she had set up the photos of Corporal O'Reilly and the MASH unit. 

"What kind of hat is that, Radar?" she mumbled absentmindedly to herself, looking at his knit cap. She turned around and walked to her desk, where she leaned over and jotted some notes on a piece of paper. 

__

Session 1 – November 11, 1951 – history, family, 'radar'

Session 2 – November 12, 1951 – war, interrupted by choppers

Session 3 – November 13, 1951 – goals in life

Cavan put the pen down and retrieved the tapes so that she could jot down the dates of the sessions she had yet to listen to.

__

Session 4 – November 14, 1951

Session 5 – November 15, 1951

Session 6 – November 30, 1951

She flopped down into her armchair to look at her notes. 

"That's a long gap," she mused, thinking about the 15 day gap between sessions 5 and 6. "Maybe the good doctor took a vacation." 

"Knock, knock." Katharine opened the door and swept into the room in her pinstriped glory, taking a seat on the edge of Cavan's desk. 

"Come in," Cavan joked with a wry grin. "What are you doing here? Do we have lunch today?" She looked at her watch, as if that might help answer the question.

"No. I just don't have any appointments today, and I was sick of my office. What are you up to?"

"Oh, um, research." Cavan folded the piece of paper in half.

"Mmm," Katharine replied distractedly. She stood up and walked over to the bookshelf, where she peered at Cavan's photos. "Now...that isn't the famous Jack Washburn, MD. Why do you have photos of a strange young man in your office?" she joked. 

"That's the corporal, from Korea, that I was talking about." Cavan sounded a little embarrassed. 

"What a cheeky grin. You still sniffing into that?" 

"Kind of. Well, yeah, I am. Arrr." Cavan made a noise of frustration, causing Katharine to turn around and face her. "I'm just...already so sick of my research, Kat. I love the topic – I mean, I picked it, right? I studied it as an undergraduate, German spies in Ireland and all that. But...it's like, now that I'm writing my thesis on it...suddenly I'm associating it with deadlines and commitments and..."

"Work?" Katharine volunteered. She sat down on the desk edge again. 

"Yeah," Cavan admitted. "I was so sure that history was what I wanted to do. But now I can barely concentrate on my thesis research, and I'm distracted by this – this Korea thing. And the sad thing is, I know that if _that_ were my thesis topic, I'd get sick of it, too." She gave a little laugh. "I'm pathetic." 

"No..." Katharine was silent for a moment. "You're just...well, overly idealistic, for one. I don't know what perfect world you imagine most people's careers are like. But...now's certainly the time to figure out if this is really what you want to do. Good God, I sound like a parent. Anyway, you've been set on studying history since I met you freshman year, Cav. You're probably just going through a thesis slump. I'm sure such a thing exists...doesn't it?" 

"I don't know. Probably." She slumped down more in her armchair. 

"Well, Cavan, I came over here to be entertained, but you're not doing a very good job," Katharine laughed, trying to cheer her friend up. 

"You're a terrible friend," Cavan scoffed. "Oo, here." She jumped up and set up a reel on her audio equipment. "Let's listen to Session 4." 

"Um, I said I came to be entertained..." Katharine said worriedly. 

"Don't worry. This'll draw you in, I promise." Cavan smiled as she pressed play and sank back into her armchair. 

[REEL 3 – Session 4, November 14, 1951]

O'Reilly: Corporal Walter Eugene O'Reilly, sir.

Doctor: Thank you, Corporal. [rustling papers] The format for today will stray a bit from what you've experienced previously. First I'd like you to address some topics, as you have in our past three sessions, and after that I'm going to ask you some questions. But I'll explain that further when we get to it. 

O'Reilly: Ah, alright, Doc.

Doctor: Corporal O'Reilly, I'd like you to talk about your fears. 

O'Reilly: [nervous laughter] Um, my fears?

Doctor: Yes.

O'Reilly: Oh, ah. Okay. I guess – I guess most of my fears are pretty normal. I mean, if fears are normal, which I guess they are, 'cause everyone seems to have them. Unless they're some kind of, ah, super human or something. Like in a comic book. But, um, there's probably no one really like that in the world. People might pretend. You know, people might act like nothing scares 'em, but I bet that can't be true. Although, you know, I've heard that sometimes if you pretend like nothing scares you, you can be braver. I guess you make yourself believe it or something. I dunno. But me – what am I scared of? 

Well...there's death. But I'm not scared of death, like I'm scared of dying or something like that. I figure...I guess I figure death's kind of a chance to catch up with your old pals and family. And it's not a bad thing. But I'm scared of what would happen to the people I left behind, you know? Well, mainly my Ma. I know it'd tear her up something awful – real awful – if I died. It tore her up enough for me to leave her to come to Korea. And if something happened to Uncle Ed, then I don't know who'd take care of her. I don't like thinking about it, how she'd feel if I died. It'd be terrible. Other than my Ma, and maybe my other family, I don't think there's anyone who'd be real tore up if I died. I mean, my pals here, they'd be sad, I'm sure of that. And I don't want to make anyone sad. I don't want to think people'd be sad 'cause of me. 

Although, you know, just 'cause I say I'm not scared of actually dying, I don't mean I'm not scared, of, say, hearing the shells and explosions and stuff. Shoot, you see the guys that come through here, missing body parts, or with so much shrapnel stuck in them it just makes you sick – well, you can't help but make that jump in your head, where you imagine yourself in their place. Least I do. I'm kind of scared of that happening to me. But only when you think about it, you know? It wouldn't stop me from doing anything, like taking the jeep somewhere, if I had to. But I guess that's pretty normal. You can be kind of scared of stuff, of getting hurt, but it doesn't keep you from doing what you're supposed to do. Heck, I guess that's how all those soldiers on the front lines do it. You can't sit there and think about being scared, or thinking about what you're scared of, or then you wouldn't be able to do anything. That's the way I figure it. But that's just me. 

Ah, let's see. My fears. I, uh, I don't know what else I could say I'm afraid of. There's stuff I'm worried about, maybe, but not really scared of. I'm worried for my friends, that they might get hurt. Sometimes I worry that this war'll never end. That I'll be stuck here forever. Or that I'll screw up, big time. You know, do something real bad like mess up the orders for medicine or something. But worries like that, they're kind of like the fears – you can't keep thinking about them or you probably will screw up. 

Um. I don't know. I guess that's all I can think of right now. 

Doctor: That's fine, Corporal. Thank you. 

O'Reilly: Oh, ah, you're welcome.

Doctor: I'm going to do something a little different now. I'd like to – 

O'Reilly: You'd like to talk about something we've already talked about. But I've gotta go. 

Doctor: -Talk about something we've already – ah, I see you're one step ahead of me. I take it you hear choppers? 

O'Reilly: Yeah, at least two. And they're heavy. Like I said, I gotta go.

Doctor: Right. I'll see you tomorrow, Corporal. 

O'Reilly: See ya, Doc. [sound of a door closing]

[Click]

---------------------------------------

Katharine remained silent while Cavan turned off her audio equipment. 

"Well?" Cavan prompted, taking one of the photographs of Radar off of the shelf and handing it to her friend. 

"I don't know if 'entertaining' was the right word for it," Katharine began, staring at the picture of the young corporal. "'Compelling,' perhaps. I feel kind of...guilty, like I've been listening to someone's therapy session." Cavan nodded.

"Yeah."

"So how does it end?" 

"I don't know." Cavan reorganized the audio tapes. "I guess I'm not in a hurry to find out." 

"So I should tune in next week, same bat time, same bat channel?" Katharine laughed. 

"I'll send you a memo." 

"Here. I'll leave you two alone," Katharine handed the photo to Cavan as she headed out the door. "I'm going to take care of some paperwork. And think about my fears." 

"Get outta here," Cavan scoffed as the phone rang. Katharine waved and slipped out the door while Cavan picked up the phone. 

"This is Cavan."

"Hi Cavan, this is Scott, from Archives II."

"Oh, Scott. Hi. What's up?" 

"I'm sorry if I'm bothering you, but I just couldn't wait to call you – I found some information on the Series." 

"Really? That's great! I actually just finished listening to Session 4. What did you find?" 

"Let's see." There was a pause, while Scott scanned his information. "It's a few things. I've got the authorization letter – it's pretty bland, doesn't give any details, just orders the start of the project. I've got a few documents that list the names of the soldiers involved – Corporal Walter O'Reilly's on there. There's some stuff I haven't figured out yet. And there are two orders, one cutting the funding to the program, the second ordering the psychologists pulled from Korea in the middle of November." 

"Wow." Cavan sat in her desk chair and pulled out the list she had made. "I can't wait to see that stuff. Oh, wait. The psychologists were pulled from Korea in the end of November, right?" 

"No, the middle." There was another pause while he shuffled through his papers. "They pulled the shrinks out on the 16th of November, 1951. Says so pretty definitively." Cavan was silent. "What is it?" 

"On the tapes I have, Session 5 is on November 15th, right? But then the last session, Session 6, is on November 30th, two weeks after that."  


"Are you sure? The program should have ended by then." 

"Yeah, I know. But...it definitely says the 30th. I haven't listened to it, yet, though."

"That's interesting." 

"What do you think?"

"It's hard to say, but I know one thing about the army – it needs money to function. They cut the funding, which means the program ended. That's that. Yet they kept talking to O'Reilly...and I'll bet they weren't just doing it for their own amusement." 

"Yeah." Cavan looked at the picture in her hand. "It sounds suspicious." 

"It sounds like someone took an interest in our boy Radar." Scott stated plainly. 

"Exactly."


	7. The Transfer

[All MASH characters belong to Fox, not to me. Thanks for the great reviews, everyone, I'm glad you're enjoying the story.]

The morning after her conversation with Scott from National Archives, Cavan sat down at the desk in her office and wrote a letter, sent an email, and placed a phone call.

The Letter

__

Mr. Thomas: 

I expect that this news won't shock you too much. I've decided to suspend indefinitely my participation in the history Ph.D. program. My reasons for this decision are two fold: first, I have found that my work with the Miller Center limits my ability to conduct research at the level necessary for thesis work. Second, I am having doubts about my commitment to a career in history. At this time I intend to use the next few weeks to make my final decision. I appreciate your help over the last few months, and I further appreciate your patience regarding this matter.

Regards, 

Cavan Fitzgerald

The Email

__

Scott –

I enjoyed our conversation yesterday and greatly (what an understatement!) appreciate the information you dug up. I feel, in fact, that it's no longer fair that you haven't heard the recordings yourself. Since I can't bring such materials into the Archives, and I also can't expect you to drive all the way down here, I propose that we meet for the day at my father's farm, which is about 40 minutes from National Archives and College Park. If you would be interested, how about this Saturday? Let me know, and I'll send the directions, and thanks again.

Cavan F.

The Phone Call

Hi. Yes, may I speak with Dr. Washburn? This is Cavan Fitzgerald. Sure, I'll hold. 

Jack? Hi. Yeah, I know, I'm sorry I couldn't make it last night – I got caught up in something. You know me. Yeah. You know, I feel like – what? Does it matter? Yeah, it was that thing about Korea. Yes. Well, the reason I called was to tell you that I'm thinking of dropping out of the Ph.D. program. You think I'm baiting you? Well, if I were, would you take the bait? Uh huh. I lack any real sense of commitment? Right. 

Jack, I can _tell_ you're tired of it. You're tired of the things I do. But that's me. I can't change the way I get distracted when something interesting comes along, something intellectually engaging, something that might take me off of – of some straight and narrow path to success. But that doesn't mean I love you any less. It's just that lately, watching you watch me has been...hard. I can see the disappointment in your eyes, and it hurts. I know you don't mean it. But if this is – if I am – something that will only irritate, or disappoint you, over and over again...

What? Am I giving you an out? I don't know. Maybe. I think, though...that things have been counterproductive lately. Things between us. I know, we should talk about this in person, but I just couldn't wait. Dinner this weekend? I can't, I'll be at my dad's farm. Next Monday would be great. Of course. I love you, Jack. Ok. Alright. Bye.

--------------------------------

The phone call had been the hardest. Cavan ran a shaking hand through her dirty blond hair and took a deep breath. She had the heavy feeling of something ending, a feeling she had been trying to ignore for too long. Now she had confronted it, set a date with it, and even though she knew it was the right thing to do, it still hurt. 

The remainder of the morning was spent on her Miller Center assignments. She allowed herself to admit that her stress levels had dropped dramatically now that her thesis work was no longer hanging over her head. Cavan felt free – that nagging feeling of dread she had experienced for the last few months was gone, and she loved it. 

Katharine arrived on schedule in a tailored grey flannel suit. They had lunch at their usual haunt. Cavan didn't mention her phone call to Jack.

---------------------------------------------- 

"So this is what a horse farm looks like." Scott, holding a cup of coffee, looked out the large bay window to the rolling green hills. "Do you run your horses in the, uh, Kentucky Derby and all that?" This question was followed by a snort from Cavan's father, who was crossing through the room in green rubber boots, jeans, and a wool sweater. 

"People think the Derby is all there is to horses," the Irishman muttered to no one in particular. 

"What my father is trying to say," Cavan interjected, "is that we have steeplechase horses here. They race over jumps. My father imports steeplechasers from Ireland and England –"

"Mostly Ireland," Mr. Fitzgerald insisted. 

"- Mostly Ireland," Cavan added, laughing. "We breed them here and raise them until they're one or two, and then we send them to the big auctions. We don't race them ourselves."

"We have once." 

"Right. Back...ten years ago?" 

"Eleven," Mr. Fitzgerald called from the doorway.

"Eleven years ago Da trained a horse called The Handsome Devil, and he won the Maryland Cup." 

"And the Virginia Gold Cup." 

"Right." Cavan smiled at the very overwhelmed Scott. "But you don't want to hear about all that." She set the Series box down and opened it, removing the pictures, papers, and tape reels. "I'll be right back." Scott sat down at the breakfast table and began flipping through the photographs while Cavan returned to her car. When she returned with the audio equipment Scott was already mesmerized. 

"I can't wait to hear the tapes," he said quietly, pushing his dark brown hair back off his forehead. 

"Then let's start at the beginning," Cavan suggested, setting up the audio equipment. "I don't mind hearing the earlier ones again." 

"What are you, listening to music?" Cavan's father was peering at them with a skeptical expression. 

"No, Da, it's research. They're recordings from the Korean War." 

"Hmm. Well anyway, I'll be at the brood mare barn." 

"Right-o, Da." Cavan finished fixing up the audio equipment. "Ready?" she asked Scott. 

"Right-o, Cavan," he responded with a smile, ignoring the look he got from her. Cavan pressed play.

-------------------------------------

It was nearly noon when they made it through the fourth session of the Series. Cavan was leaning back in her chair, her feet propped up on another chair, Scott was slouched forward in his blue collared shirt, listening intently. 

"The kid was really clairvoyant," Scott said in a voice of awe after Cavan shut off the equipment. "I mean, he really picked up on those choppers."

"I know. It's all so very odd." 

"Are you two through listening to your thing? I made sandwiches." Cavan's father entered the room with two plates, each holding a sandwich of thick bread, turkey, and cheese. He set the plates down a little grumpily, as if he had been forced to make them. 

"Oh! Thanks, Da." 

"Thank you, Mr. Fitzgerald."

"Hmm." Cavan's father continued on his way out the room. 

"Your dad's very nice," Scott commented. 

"Yeah," Cavan replied absently. "He can be a little hard to live with, though. A little set in his ways."

"Whose father isn't?" Scott said between bites. "You come up here to visit him often?" 

"No." For a moment it seemed that Cavan wasn't willing to say anymore. "I haven't been home much since my mom died last year." She cleared her throat. 

"Oh. I'm sorry." 

"That's alright, it's not your fault. Hey, let's listen to the fifth session," she added, changing the subject. Scott watched her calmly before responding. 

"Sounds good." 

****

[REEL 3 – Session 5, November 15, 1951]

O'Reilly: Corporal Walter Eugene O'Reilly, sir.

Doctor: Thank you, Corporal. As I'm sure you remember from yesterday, I'd like to talk about something you've mentioned before. 

O'Reilly: Ok, Doc. 

Doctor: You mentioned that your nickname is Radar, Corporal, and you further delineated the particular qualities that define this...ability of yours.

O'Reilly: I what'ed the whats of what?

Doctor: Ah, you explained to me the reason behind your nickname. And how your ability allows you to foresee events to a certain extent. 

O'Reilly: Oh. Um, yeah, I guess I said that. I was just talking, though, you know. I didn't mean to make a big deal out of it. It's kind of like, um, you know how some people are smarter at math? Or some people have really good eyesight? Heh, not me, obviously. But some people are real good at one thing, and I'm just real good at this, I think. 

Doctor: Well, it sounds that way, Corporal. It may seem like a small thing to you, but I'm quite interested in it, and so are several of my colleagues. 

O'Reilly: [coughs] Ah. That, um. I guess, maybe...

Doctor: There is a chance, Corporal, that you could be one of the most valuable members of the United States Army. [silence] You look a little uncomfortable, Corporal. This is something you should be proud of. 

O'Reilly: Ah, no offense, Doc, sir, but I don't really wanna be one of the most valuable members of the U.S. Army. I, uh, I like being an important part of the MASH 4077th, and that's fine by me. Just that. 

Doctor: Certain things, Corporal, are beyond your control. As an enlisted man in the US Army, you have a responsibility to use your abilities in the way that would best benefit your Army and your country. 

O'Reilly: Um. [silence]

Doctor: Perhaps you see where I'm going with this. We – that is, my colleagues and I – have arranged for your transfer to Tokyo. There we will further assess your abilities and determine the placement that will best utilize those abilities. 

O'Reilly: [silence] You, uh, you're kidding, right Doc? You can't be serious. You can't move me from the 4077th. I mean, and it's not even me, it's not even that I'd be missing it too much – although I would, I'd miss it a heck of a lot – but if you think I was kidding about being an important part of this place, I wasn't. I can't just up and leave. This place'll go, well, it'll go to hell, pardon my French, but it'll go right to hell! 

Doctor: Now, Corporal, I realize you're upset, but we have secured a competent replacement for you. The MASH unit will continue to function, I promise you that. 

O'Reilly: But... [heavy, exasperated breathing] You can't do this. You really can't. I, uh – and it's not like my 'abilities' or whatever you call them, it's not like they're anything real special! I just hear things before anyone else does sometimes! You can't take me out of here just for that!

Doctor: Relax. Nothing bad will happen. [long silence, sounds of exasperation in the background] Relax, Corporal. Change is always troubling, I realize, but this is a real opportunity for you. I've arranged for a transport for you next Saturday, by chopper, at oh eight hundred. You should have your things packed and ready to go by then. And, Corporal – it is of the utmost importance that you continue to keep our discussions and plans to yourself. Is that understood? 

O'Reilly: [silence]

Doctor: I said is that understood, Corporal?

O'Reilly: Yes, sir. 

Doctor: Your CO will be informed that you are transferring to another MASH unit, by order of General Sutton. If anyone asks why you are packing, you will inform them that you are transferring to the 8063rd MASH. Is all this clear. 

O'Reilly: Yes. _Sir. _

Doctor: Good. That's it for today, then Corporal. I will be seeing you in Tokyo. 

O'Reilly: [mumbled] Tokyo. 

Doctor: Good day. 

O'Reilly: Yeah, right. [sound of footsteps, a door slamming]

[click]

------------------------------------

Scott was still slumped forward in what was obviously his position of deep thought while Cavan switched off the audio equipment. 

"So the last session, the session after the two week gap, is in Tokyo," she said, drawing him from his reverie.

"Sounds that way." He picked up the picture where Radar was looking away from the camera, snowflakes falling lightly around him. Scott flipped the picture around and slid it carefully across the table to Cavan. "Poor kid." 

"Radar O'Reilly," she mused, staring at the picture. Reaching across the table she grabbed the group picture at the 4077th. "I wonder who's who in here. He's mentioned a few people." She looked down at her notes. "This, uh, Hawkeye Pierce. B.J. Hunnicut. Colonel Potter. Colonel Blake was the one who died..."

"Right." 

"Do you want to go ahead and listen to the last session?" Cavan asked. 

"No...I think I need a little break." Cavan nodded in agreement. "I made a short list of things on my mind. Let's see. First of all, we need to see if the 4077th MASH unit has any records of this incident. Commanding officer's reports during the time. Memos. Anything like that. Second, we need to sort through the papers I found, to see if anything else comes up concerning this...transfer of O'Reilly to Tokyo. And what happened there. Third, it should be relatively simple to see whether or not he _returns _to the MASH unit. If he does, then we'll have a specific window of time in which to find information. That'll really narrow things down."

"Well. I can see why you were hired to work at archives," Cavan joked. "I can't argue with any of that. Hey, since you want to take a break, how about we take a little tour of the farm? I really need to stretch my legs." She stood up and pulled on her down vest. 

"Good plan." Scott got to his feet and pulled on his pea coat. "Radar's waited fifty years to be heard," he added in a soft, reflective voice. "He can wait an hour more." 

Cavan led him out the front door, watching her feet, deep in thought. 


	8. Static

[All MASH characters belong to Fox. This chapter is dedicated to all those who wait patiently for updates – it's nice to know a story is appreciated so much that each installment is anxiously awaited. I promise to be better!]

"Stand back," Cavan cautioned Scott. "He likes to nip. He doesn't mean to hurt you, but sometimes he gets a good bite in." Scott stood back, wary, while Cavan rubbed the huge bay horse on the neck. 

"So this is the one that won the Maryland Cup? The Handsome Devil?" 

"Yeah. His offspring have done really well, too." Cavan's face glowed as she watched the big horse. She turned to look out toward the pastures where the yearlings were grazing. "Those are the yearlings," she said. "They'll be sold in a few months." 

"Are they his?" Scott asked, gesturing towards the bay stallion. 

"Some are. We have three stallions here: The Devil, Zeitgeist, and Philistine. Then we have about twenty brood mares. They were all champion steeplechase horses, too." 

"You should name a horse Radar." Cavan laughed out loud. 

"We should. Corporal Radar O'Reilly," she mused. The walked down a tree-lined lane to the mare barn, where they reached the stall of a very pregnant horse. 

"This is Surfer Girl, but her barn name is Wendy." The mare came over and whuffled Cavan's shoulder, looking for treats. "She's pregnant by The Devil, and she's a week overdue." Scott peered over the stall door at the mare's bulging sides. He whistled softly. 

"What do you do when they're overdue?" he asked. 

"It depends. She's not in any distress. Caswell – that's the head mare groom – thinks she'll have it tonight or tomorrow night." 

"Why at night?" The mare sniffed Scott's arm delicately.

"I guess it's a holdover from when horses were wild. They had their foals at night because it was safer. A baby horse can stand within an hour of birth and run within about a day." Scott raised his eyebrows. 

"Interesting." Cavan laughed out loud again. 

"You don't have to pretend," she said, grinning. "I know horses aren't fascinating to everyone." 

"No," Scott replied, laughing as he protested. "It is interesting, I promise. Interesting that they can choose when to have the foal. When they know it's safe." Cavan fed the mare a carrot and they walked on. 

"Our Corporal was a fan of animals as well," Cavan said as they walked. "I wonder if he had horses." 

"Hmm. He didn't mention that they were on his farm, did he? So what about you? Are you planning to take over the family farm when your dad retires? Or do you have brothers or sisters to do it?" 

"Ah, no, it's just me. Um. I always planned on taking it over when I was younger, but...I don't know. I think once I hit college I just wanted to go in a completely opposite direction. And now that I'm in this completely opposite direction...I guess it would feel like a failure to me were I to give up and come back home to work the farm." 

"Really?" Scott remained silent while they walked for a few minutes. "A failure, huh?" They stopped at the yearling paddock to watch the young horses run around. "Well you seem to like the place enough. Maybe it wouldn't be a failure so much as a homecoming." 

"Maybe," Cavan responded in a noncommittal tone. 

"Anyway," Scott ventured, feeling the tension in the conversation, "maybe we'd better go back and finish listening to the recordings." 

"Yeah," Cavan said quietly, watching one of the yearling fillies speed around the pasture, racing the colts. "Good plan. 

-------------------------------

Ten minutes later Scott and Cavan settled into their seats at the kitchen table. Scott had his pen ready and Cavan had provided them both with cups of coffee. 

"Ready?" she asked.

"Yep."

Cavan started the audio equipment for the final session. 

But all they heard was static. 

-------------------------------

"Goddamnit!" Cavan got to her feet and advanced the reel a few times, but she only found more pops and crackles. She heaved a sigh and sat down in her chair. "Damnit." 

"It's alright." Scott tapped his pen on the tabletop, the only sign that he was a little agitated as well. 

"But – " Cavan sputtered, unable to find any words for her disappointment. "It's –"

"I know. But it's not the end of the line," he urged. "We still have the avenues I listed." He looked down at his papers. "Commanding officer's reports, memos, transfers. There might even be something else out there." 

"Is the music over? Why the sour faces?" Cavan's father stood in the doorway. There was red clay covering his boots, but he didn't seem to notice that he was tracking it in onto the carpet. 

"It wasn't music, Da." Cavan managed a pale smile, knowing that her father was joking. "The last recording – ah, wasn't a recording. Now we don't know what happened to the soldier." 

"Korea, eh?" Mr. Fitzgerald actually picked up one of his feet and wiped a bit of clay onto the baseboard. "What was that, 'round 1950?" 

"Yeah. This was 1951, actually." 

"Was only fifty years ago, then. You want to know what happened to the soldier, my girl, maybe he's still around and you could ask him." 

Scott and Cavan stared at each other for a beat before bursting out into laughter. 

"What, was I saying something funny?" Cavan's father asked, looking a little disgruntled. 

"No, sir," Scott managed as he reined in his laughter. "I think the two of us have been stuck in archives so long, we've forgotten that not every answer can be found in a pile of dusty papers." Mr. Fitzgerald stared at them. 

"Oh. Well, then," he commented, not very interested. "Glad to provide a bit of sense." He stalked off, whistling absentmindedly. 

"So. What do we do, pick up an Iowa phone book and phone the man?" Cavan joked. 

"Hmm." Scott rubbed the stubble that was beginning to appear on his chin. "There must be avenues for finding people. Finding...veterans, for instance." 

"Katharine!" Cavan shouted, drumming her hands on the tabletop triumphantly. 

"Who?" 

"My friend, Katharine – she's a lawyer for nonprofit organizations, and one of them is a _veterans_ association. They must have records of everyone." 

"Excellent. You can ask her about that, then, and I'll work on the other things." Scott jotted some more notes down on his paper. "It would be really convenient if we found the reports of his commanding officer. Daily reports, things of that nature." Cavan shook her head. "What?" 

"The commanding officer's reports will just be routine, right? We heard on the tape that whatever happened to Radar was all very below the boards. Anything that appears in his reports will probably just refer to his transfer, maybe to his replacement. But I doubt there will be any details about where he went." 

"You're right." They sat in silence for a few minutes, thinking. "We need some kind of personal report. Something with specifics." Cavan nodded and arranged the photographs in front of her. Suddenly she froze, pulling one photo closer to her. 

"I have an idea," she said, pushing the photo across the table to Scott. "In an Army unit, who's concerned with the individual well-being of every soldier?"

"The commanding officer?" Scott ventured, staring at the group photo. 

"No. I mean, yeah, he is, but he's too caught up in the bureaucracy. He wants the unit to function as a whole. Who's concerned with every _person_ – with every _soul_, one might say?" 

Scott lifted up the photo and peered closely at it. He chuckled when he realized what she was saying. 

"White collar. The priest." 

"Exactly." Scott grabbed his stack of photocopies and started sifting through it. 

"I've got a list of personnel assigned to the MASH unit somewhere in here." Cavan raised her eyebrows. 

"Wow. You were thorough." 

"What can I say? It's my job," Scott joked. "Ah, here we go." He ran his finger down the page. "A Colonel Potter, that's the CO," he mumbled. "There's Pierce, Hunnicut. O'Reilly himself. Aha! Company priest, a Lieutenant Father Francis John Patrick Mulcahy." 

"O'Reilly, Mulcahy? Good Irish names." Cavan's father had returned. "Patrick had to leave early, Cavan. Come help me bring the yearlings up." 

"Oh, ah." Cavan looked outside to find that dusk was rapidly approaching. Scott stood up and began to organize his things. 

"I should be going anyway." He piled his papers and tucked them under one arm. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Fitzgerald," he said, shaking the Irishman's hand. "You have a lovely farm." 

"Ah. Thank you." 

"I'll be in touch, Cavan," Scott said, turning to her. "You work on finding O'Reilly, I'll work on the rest." Cavan nodded and they shook hands. "Have a good evening." 

"You, too. Thanks, Scott." Cavan and her father watched as the archivist headed for his car. 

"He was nice," Mr. Fitzgerald commented gruffly. Cavan remained silent. "Let's get the yearlings." 

Cavan followed her father out the door. 


	9. Fragments

****

[All MASH characters belong to Fox. They're just visiting me for the weekend. And let me tell you, my house will never be the same again.]

"Here." Katharine shoved a whisky sour into Cavan's hand. "That was your favorite drink, right? Back in college? Yeah, it was, I remember you ordering it all the time at The Buddhist. Or was it a Tom Collins?" 

"No. I mean, yes. This is right." Cavan sucked down some of the drink. "Thanks." 

"So it's over then?" Cavan and Katharine were at Katharine's house, sitting in her living room. Cavan grunted in response. "Jack Washburn and Cavan Fitzgerald are no more," Katharine continued to muse. "But I thought you said it was mutual – why are you so upset?" 

"I dunno." Cavan mumbled. "I guess...I mean I knew it was coming, but that doesn't mean the end was any less painful. Well, maybe not painful, but...something. I guess it's like the end of an era. And I'll miss him. We just didn't meet eye to eye. Never did, really." 

The two young women continued to muse in silence for a few minutes. Katharine had fixed herself a gin and tonic, which she was sipping thoughtfully. 

"Well," she began slowly, "I'm afraid I don't have any good news to cheer you up." Cavan looked up from her drink. 

"What do you mean? About Radar?" 

"Yeah, or Corporal Walter Eugene O'Reilly, as the Army likes to call him."

"What did you find out?" Cavan sat forward in her chair, a hopeful expression on her face. 

"Ok, I contacted the administration of the foundation, right? And they researched the name for me, and sure enough, Walter Eugene O'Reilly popped up. He returned home before the war was over – a family emergency or some such." 

"Oh? So he went home? Where was he discharged from? Did he leave from the MASH 4077th?" 

"Indeed he did." Cavan's mind was racing – he had returned to the 4077th, which meant that he hadn't remained with the 'Doctor' permanently. 

"And he went back to Iowa?" 

"Yes. Some small place I've never heard of. Sounds like Ottawa." 

"Ottumwa." 

"Ah, yeah. Right. So anyway, he returned to Iowa, but pretty soon after that, poof! He disappeared." 

"What the hell are you talking about? How could he disappear?" 

"The woman at the foundation couldn't figure it out. He disappeared from the records around 1952 sometime. He hasn't been on the books in Iowa since then." 

"What about other states? Maybe he moved." Cavan, in a bad mood already, was getting a little grumpy. 

"We checked. Nothing turned up." 

"Is that possible? I mean, do veterans ever just go off the books like that? 

"It happens, but it's pretty rare. The government tries to keep pretty close tabs on all its veterans, and, likewise, the veterans like to stay in touch with other veterans. So once a name appears in the registration, it tends to stay there." 

"You've got to be kidding me." Cavan downed the rest of her drink. 

"I asked to speak with the administrative head of veteran registration, and he informed me that something like this usually occurs when there's a breakdown of communication on both sides. The government loses track of the veteran, and the veteran makes no attempt to reestablish contact with the government, for whatever reason. He said that's probably what happened."

Cavan made a low noise of discontent. 

"Now, this guy owed me a favor, because I've been spending a lot of my free time working on their cases lately. So he put out a special search for your boy. Using government venues other than the veteran associations they typically use to search for people. I think one other Walter Eugene O'Reilly turned up – but he was a twenty-five year old bus driver in Boston."

"Let me get this straight." Cavan walked over to the bar and mixed herself a new drink, heavier on the whisky this time. "According to the United States government, Corporal Walter Eugene O'Reilly doesn't exist?" 

"I doubt they'd put it quite that way, but...yeah. And I checked another thing – there are no O'Reilly's currently in the city of Ottumwa, Iowa." 

"What if he died, soon after he came home? Would that do it? I mean, would that make him disappear?" 

"No, quite the opposite. Somehow the US government actually keeps better track of its dead veterans than it does its live ones." 

"Well goddamn then. The kid with ESP disappears into thin air." A curious look appeared on her face. "Maybe he never really existed at all," she mused. "Maybe he's only in my head." 

"Um, right. I think that's the stress and the alcohol talking. Besides, I heard the tape. That guy from archives heard the tape." 

"Scott."

"Ok, Scott. He heard the tape, saw the papers. We know for a fact that this Corporal existed, we just don't know exactly what happened to him." 

"Alright. I think I've had enough for one night," Cavan said, setting her empty glass down.

"Enough drinks or enough of this talk?" 

"Both." She pulled on her jacket. "Thanks, Kat – for the drinks and for checking up on O'Reilly for me. If I sound angry, it's not your fault. You did your best. It's just been a long day." 

"No worries. You ok to drive?" she asked with concern. Cavan waved her hand.

"I took the bus. I'll talk to you tomorrow, Kat."

"Ok, Cav. Have a good night." 

---------------------------------------------

Cavan struggled to pull on her running shoes the next morning. When she stumbled blearily out of her front door, it struck her that the sun was at least 10 times brighter than it normally was at that hour. But she fell into a slow jog and managed to maintain it around the curves and up the hills of the area. After about a half hour she felt much better and settled into a genuine run, letting her mind travel to the events of the previous day while her body was otherwise engaged. 

__

People don't just disappear. He must have moved somewhere. Unless the government got him. Unless the government got him and erased his existence from their records. She shook her head. _No, if they wanted to erase his existence, they would have done it completely – there would be no record of his ever having been in the Army, or of his coming home. It must just be some anomaly. He has to be somewhere – we just have to figure out where. _

Her running shoes padded steadily along the sidewalk. 

__

Katharine said that veterans like to stay in touch with the government, and with other veterans. Even if Radar's fallen out of touch with the veterans association, or even with the government, I'll bet one of his veteran buddies knows where he is, where he went. That's exactly what we'll do. We'll contact one of his Army buddies from the 4077th. 

Confident that she had solved at least one of her problems, Cavan turned up Observatory Hill and shut off her active thinking so that she could concentrate solely on ascending the steep incline. 

---------------------------------------------------

When Cavan returned from her run, dripping sweat despite the chilly temperature outside, the message light was blinking on her machine. She grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and returned to the machine, pressing play. 

"Hi, Cavan, it's Scott from National Archives." Cavan smiled – he still added the 'from National Archives,' as if she didn't know. "I've been working on this Father Mulcahy character, and I've got some bad news." Cavan's stomach sank – he couldn't have disappeared, too. "It appears he passed away a few years ago – in 1998 to be exact. But it turns out he was quite an exemplary man. He founded a number of orphanages across the country and became quite an important member of the Catholic Church. But most interesting to us is the fact that, after his death, all of his papers were donated to his alma mater – Loyola. We're in pretty close contact with most libraries, so I'm going to make a call to see what kind of things are in his collection. I'm hoping we'll find what we're looking for. Sorry for the long message, but I wanted to keep you up to date. Talk to you later. 

Cavan grinned, shaking her head. The man was astoundingly thorough. She pulled off her running shoes and headed upstairs for a shower. 


	10. A Meditation in time of War

[All MASH characters belong to Fox. If you've come this far and don't realize that, then maybe you're in the wrong place. I'm glad everyone's enjoying the story, thanks for the reviews. I'm attempting a Mulcahy voice in this chapter. Lord help me.]

"I'm sorry, it's a little messy." Scott moved a pile of documents from the spare chair in his office and motioned for Cavan to sit down. His walls were lined with books, and books and papers were stacked in various places on the floor as well. Nonetheless, there seemed to be an order to the chaos, even if it only existed in the archivist's mind. 

"That's ok. Thanks." Cavan took a seat. 

"I can't believe we can't find Radar O'Reilly." Scott sat down behind his desk, shaking his head. "Thank your friend Katharine for me, though – she certainly went above and beyond the call of duty."

"She's very meticulous, although she sometimes she pretends she's not," Cavan replied with a laugh. "Of course, now we're stuck – we were counting on talking to O'Reilly, and now that's not an option." 

"If he's out there, we'll find him. It might take awhile, but we'll find him." Scott didn't sound entirely convinced. "For now, you're right – we need to find out who's still alive who might know where Radar is."

"I got the list you faxed me, of the MASH personnel. And Katharine told me who to call in order to get in touch with them." 

"Excellent." Scott made some notes on his pad. "But I won't keep you in suspense any longer," he added, not looking up. "I know you're anxious to see what I found on Mulcahy." He passed her a manila folder. "Like I said before, he was quite a remarkable man. In addition to the orphanages he founded here in the States, he continued to support a Korean orphanage his entire life, and left them a sizable amount of money on his death." Cavan nodded as Scott talked – the first page in the folder was a short biography of Father Mulcahy. 

"He also wrote a number of treatises on the relationship between the Church and war – there's a copy of one of them in the folder. The library at Loyola was probably the most proud of those. And it turns out that his treatises were largely based on his experiences in Korea, which he recorded painstakingly in his journal." Cavan looked up at Scott, who had a triumphant look on his face. 

"You mean?" 

"Once I knew there was a journal, all I had to was give them the right dates – which we knew – and they copied the journal entries and faxed them to me." 

"So it's in here?" Cavan asked, flipping hurriedly through the papers in the folder.

"Yeah – you'll recognize it, it's the only handwritten thing in there." 

Cavan stopped flipping when she found the papers and pulled them out of the folder. The script was small and neat, but it still took her a few seconds to adjust her eyes to it. 

"I have a department meeting," Scott said, getting up from his chair. "I'll be back in about an hour or so. I'll just leave you and the good Father alone." 

"Mmm hmm," Cavan replied absentmindedly. She was already reading. Scott smiled and slipped out of the room. 

--------------------------------

From the personal papers of Father Francis John Patrick Mulcahy

__

Diary entry, November 20th, 1951

The camp is astir today, as we find ourselves in quite the predicament - the kind of predicament that might easily be solved by our resourceful young Company Clerk, Radar O'Reilly, were it not that young Radar himself is at the very epicenter of our imbroglio. I find myself at a loss – my talents are at comforting, at listening, and occasionally at issuing a 'fix' (as our Hawkeye is wont to say) to a struggling young man on the operating table. If it were in my power to locate Corporal O'Reilly and deliver him to the 4077th, I would do it. But, alas, such is not the case. 

Oh dear. I fear I'm being terribly obtuse. Let me elaborate.

Colonel Potter was in a dark mood this morning. Our Colonel, while a stalwart and respectable model of authority, does not possess the ability to conceal his moods. I ran across him on my way to breakfast, and when he responded to my inquiry regarding his health with one of his (charming?) colloquial epithets, I sensed that something was awry. 

He informed me, in very brisk terms, that Radar's replacement had arrived at eight in the morning. I expressed my astonishment – a replacement meant that Radar had been transferred, and none of us in camp had heard of any such movement. The Colonel fairly shouted that the transfer had taken place so many levels over his head, he didn't know whom to blame. A message had arrived last night stating that Radar was to be transferred to the 8063rd MASH early this morning, and that his replacement was to arrive soon after. 

"Poor Radar," I said, shaking my head and, most likely, touching the cross that hangs from my neck. "Was the transfer as sudden to him?" 

"Mmph. There's been something afoot these last few weeks, although I could never quite get the problem in my sights and pull the trigger."

"Now Colonel," I admonished, a little wary of his tone. "Do you not believe that had Radar _known_ he was leaving, he would have told someone?" 

"Oh, I'm not blaming the boy, Father. I think he did know, but I think the blasted higher-ups – whoever they are in this case – told him to keep his mouth shut, because they knew I'd raise all kinds of hue and cry if I knew they were trying to take him. So they took him from under my nose." 

The Colonel went grumbling off, while I was left to stand in wonder. That Radar had vanished, and under such shrouded circumstances, was enough to trouble me deeply. I said no word of the matter at breakfast, for fear of causing a ruckus, but by noon the entire camp had heard. They had also, by that time, realized that Radar's replacement was far from satisfactory, which any of us could have predicted. Radar had a preternatural ability for keeping this camp running smoothly – it could not be an easy job, but Radar made it look so. I do not doubt that his methods of organization are quite atypical, but as they functioned beautifully for Radar, it made no difference until now. 

I suddenly realized that in the preceding paragraph I used the past tense of the verb 'function' in reference to Radar. I do hope dearly that Radar returns to us, before this camp falls apart.

It is night now, and the camp is quiet, perhaps awaiting a delivery of stricken young men that is sure to come in the early morning hours. Tomorrow, Lord willing, we will sort out this predicament and discover, if nothing else, why Radar left the 4077th. I pray that it's nothing terrible – am I presuming too much to believe that Radar would have come to me if something was troubling him? Perhaps I overestimate my value here at the camp. But now is not the time for doubts, as they will get me nowhere. 

For now I will simply pray, and then I will sleep until I am needed. 

--------------------------------------------------

Scott entered the room quietly and placed a mug on the desk in front of Cavan. She nearly leaped out of her seat. 

"I'm sorry!" he exclaimed in a quiet voice, wary of the fact that he had startled her. Cavan started laughing at herself. 

"That's ok, I was just a little captivated by Mulcahy's account." She peered into the mug. 

"It's coffee. I thought you might like some. I remembered you like it with just cream." 

"Yeah, I do. Thanks." Cavan looked up at him as she said this, a thoughtful expression on her face. She opened her mouth, as if to say something, but instead she picked up her mug and took a slow sip of coffee. "What do you do, outside of here?" she asked Scott as she set down her mug. He looked up from some papers, a blank expression on his face. 

"Outside of work, or outside of researching Radar O'Reilly?"

"Outside of all the work and research you do. I've never heard you mention anything." Scott leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. He looked amused. 

"I might say the same for you. I know that you work for the Miller Center, and that you're writing a doctoral thesis on German Spies in Ireland, but beyond that..."

"_Was_," Cavan corrected. "_Was_ writing a doctoral thesis. I quit the program. Now I just work for the Miller Center. And do this." She held up the Mulcahy file, as if to illustrate this last point. 

"Ok, see, now I know even _less_ about what you do," Scott joked. "But since you asked first...I'm afraid I don't have much of a life outside of these books and documents. A lot of the documents from my era, the Cold War era, are just now being declassified, which means I have to work extra hard to get them catalogued and ready for use. I don't go out to bars or clubs or anything, if that's what you're talking about. I read a lot – anything that _doesn't_ have to do with the Cold War. I run. And every weekend that it's nice I drive down to the Blue Ridge Mountains and go hiking with my dog. Not a very exciting life, is it?" 

"I didn't ask if you had an exciting life or not," Cavan said with a smile. "I asked what you did outside of work, and you answered the question pretty well."

"It's your turn, then," Scott returned with a nod. 

"Nothing too exciting on my side, either. I run, and I ride horses – less these days than I used to, though. I play a little guitar, and that may be an exaggeration. If I go out at all, it's with my friend Kat. We go to concerts around the area, if there's anyone good playing." She hesitated, taking another swallow of coffee. "What kind of dog do you have?" 

"He's a mutt. A lab mixed with something like a Weimareiner. I've never been really sure. He's a great dog, though. Name's Mosby." 

"Like the Gray Ghost?" 

"The same." They both laughed. "I have to go through some of the storage rooms, so I'll let you get back to reading, Cavan." 

"Ok, thanks for the coffee, Scott." 

"My pleasure."


	11. Curiouser and curiouser

[All MASH characters belong to Fox. I'd like to extend a personal apology to anyone that was waiting for this installment – life got a little (ok, a lot) crazy, and poor Radar had to be put on the backburner for a while, something that Cavan would never let happen! Alas, if only Cavan were writing this story, but instead you have to put up with slacker me. I promise to be better. Anyway, the next few chapters might be shorter than normal, because I'm going to try to get them out a little faster. A little is better than none, right? Anyway, thanks to everyone for the reviews – you all rock.]

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Cavan took a long swallow of coffee, leaned back in her chair, and began to read the next diary entry. 

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From the personal papers of Father Francis John Patrick Mulcahy

__

Diary entry, November 21st, 1951

Another day, another page in the mystery surrounding our young Corporal. As our replacement company clerk is still struggling his way through the very basics of his job, Colonel Potter, Captains Pierce and Hunnicut, and myself managed to put a call through to the 8063rd to talk with Radar. We were met by a brick wall. 

Apparently, Radar was never transferred to the 8063rd. Moreover, when Colonel Potter called his superiors, no one could identify the party that had originally given him the false information. We spent most of the morning placing calls but learned nothing of use. Again I lament the fact that we don't have Radar here to solve this problem! Instead we only have our respective ways of showing worry and frustration – Potter's gruffness, Hawkeye's jokes, B.J.'s cautious optimism, and my prayers. 

Unfortunately, none of these seems to be doing much good right now. Radar has disappeared and we have no idea where he is. Lord bless the boy.

This afternoon, we were eating a very quiet and unenthusiastic lunch when Hawkeye set his fork down loudly. 

"I've had it," he said. We all looked at him, not quite knowing what to expect. "Small as he might be, Radar can't just disappear." 

"Well, he did, Hawk," B.J. replied pointedly. "And apparently there's nothing we can do about it." 

"That can't be true!" Hawkeye sputtered. It was rare – very rare – to see Hawkeye upset, and I've never seen him quite so frustrated. "Somebody has to know _something_. Who was Radar close to?"

There was a slight pause, then I took it upon myself to answer the question. 

"Well, Hawkeye," I began as tactfully as I could. "There was Henry. And, of course, you." Hawkeye looked genuinely surprised. 

"Excellent," he said bitterly. "His closest friends are a disillusioned alcoholic and a dead man. And I'm not sure which of us is which." None of us replied immediately, I'm afraid – it was a very uncomfortable moment. Finally I once again took it upon myself to break the silence. 

"Nonetheless," I ventured, "we all talked to Radar on a daily basis. Did he say anything strange lately?" Again, everyone was quite for a moment while they thought. 

"Ah!" Hawkeye slapped his hand on the table, a look of triumph on his face. "I swear I heard him mention something about a doctor the other day, in passing, but when I asked him about it the kid got flustered and tried to pass it off. It was...a doctor's appointment, but it's not like he was seeing one of us, right? That's got to be suspicious." I was inclined to agree with him, it did sound quite strange. "Maybe he had some kind of health condition – I mean, besides the nearsightedness and chronic awkwardness, and the Army shipped him off for it." 

"No," Potter replied, shaking his head. "They weren't doctor's appointments, they were interviews. The Army interviewed about four or five enlisted men in the camp – all young fellows like Radar." 

"Why didn't we know about it?" B.J. asked incredulously. 

"The Army wanted to keep it quiet – they said they wanted the men to talk honestly, and that talking about the interviews in the camp would interfere." 

"That's a big load of baloney," Hawkeye countered, "and it sounds just like something Flagg or one of his cronies would cook up." 

"Fiddlesticks." Potter wasn't convinced. "The rest of the interviewed men are still here." 

"Yeah, but we don't care about them," Hawkeye mumbled. It pains me to say it, but I couldn't agree more at the time. "What else do we have to go on?" Everyone nodded in consent, but still none of us knew what to do. 

The next thing that happened was a little surprising and very refreshing. Majors Houlihan and Burns were sitting at the far end of our table and to the best of my knowledge were not aware of our conversation. I was proven wrong when, on her way out of the mess tent, Major Houlihan stopped by our table. 

"Gentlemen," she said in her no-nonsense voice. She looked a tad exasperated, as though she couldn't believe how slow we were. "The facts are that Radar left here yesterday morning and went _somewhere_. We might not know where he went, but we know that he _did_ go." We stared at her uncomprehendingly, causing her to roll her eyes. "Well, he didn't just disappear into thin air! _Someone_ or _something_ had to take him wherever he was going. It was most likely a helicopter, and do we not know most or all of the chopper pilots operating in this area? The first thing you should do is find out who flew him!" Shaking her head, she walked away, leaving us staring at her with slightly open mouths. 

"What a woman," Hawkeye murmured in a tone that was only half-joking. 

I do not believe that my white collar and cross prevent me from agreeing wholeheartedly. 


	12. The Appointment

[All MASH characters belong to Fox. Man, I'm getting tired of typing that over and over again. Anyway, I'm no longer going to make promises about getting chapters out soon, I'm just not able to crank them out like I have in the past. But I will once again thank my readers – you guys are awesome. This story is really close to my heart, and the fact that you guys support it means a lot to me. And lest you think I'm leaving you with a cliffhanger, I promise it might seem like one, but it's not really as exciting as it seems. So don't hate me! Cheers.]

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Riveted, Cavan fairly dove into the next diary entry.

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From the personal papers of Father Francis John Patrick Mulcahy

__

Diary entry, November 22ndt, 1951

Finally! The good Lord has taken it upon Himself to give us a bright spot in the middle of our confounding muddle. Colonel Potter was able to contact the helicopter pilot who flew Radar out. Initially he was a tad reluctant to divulge their destination that morning, but when he realized that Hawkeye was the surgeon who had recently saved his buddy's life, he gladly gave us the information – Radar had been taken to a secure location in Tokyo. 

Once we determined this one elusive bit of data, we gathered in the Colonel's office to discuss our options, or whether there were any at all. I have recorded what followed to the best of my ability.

"I just don't understand why this Army brass is interested in a farm boy from Iowa," Potter muttered. Our situation has really worn our CO down. 

"A chubby, four-eyed farm boy, no less," Hawkeye chimed in. "Maybe they need someone to test Army food. Or try out combat tractors." 

"That's enough, Pierce," Potter snapped. I saw Hawkeye and B.J. exchange glances, but Hawkeye backed off nonetheless. 

"Isn't there someone in Tokyo that you can call about this?" I hoped that my tone of voice would assuage our currently-prickly Colonel. 

"Sure, there are lots of people I can call. But I'll be a monkey's uncle if any of them can help me. Whoever took Radar is doing his best to cover his tracks. Even if we got a hold of someone on the horn, I doubt we'd be able to put our foot in the door." 

"So you'll have to go to Tokyo." Hawkeye stated, raising his eyebrows.

"Hmmph. You're right. And you're coming with me. I have a feeling we'll need a dose of irreverence if we're going to get anywhere with this." 

"Did you hear that, folks?" Hawkeye gloated. "I've got a free pass to Tokyo."

"Not a free pass, Pierce, you'll be working the whole time." I do believe that even Hawkeye wilted a little under Potter's serious gaze. 

"Ah. Yes, indeed. I'll do my best, Colonel," a newly solemn Hawkeye replied. "We'll get Radar back." 

"Damn straight we will. This place is falling to pieces without that boy – nothing's getting done or it's getting done wrong and I'm sick of it. I never figured that farm boy was running the place. Probably because half the time he was doing what I wanted without me even asking it." Potter cleared his throat. 

"Yeah, he did the same thing with Henry," Hawkeye added, smiling. "Henry always got all worked up over it, drove him nuts Radar anticipating his every word. The kid's got ESP or something – and if he does I don't want to know what he can read in my mind." 

We all laughed knowingly – although I admit I was a little uncomfortable – seeing as Hawkeye's habits around camp are notorious. 

"You don't think that's why they took him, do you?" B.J. volunteered. 

"For what he knows about my thoughts?" Hawkeye joked. 

"No. I mean, yeah – for what he knows about everyone's thoughts. For having whatever ESP he has. We don't call him Radar for nothing." 

"Jehosephat, you might be right, Hunnicut. That would explain the tip-toeing around. It could be the damned spooks that got him, too – and if they did there's no way we're getting him back." 

This comment was followed by a lengthy silence. I wracked my brain for something encouraging to say but ultimately came up only with a feeble, "Lord willing, we'll be able to find Radar and help him." Everyone else nodded politely. No one had the heart to say it wasn't likely. 

Yet I still keep hope. Radar has only been gone from us a couple of days now, so we are, effectively, hot on his heels. Rather, Colonel Potter and Hawkeye will be hot on his heels come o-six hundred-hours tomorrow. And though I wonder now whether Hawkeye will be able to rouse himself at that early hour, I know that both he and the Colonel will do their best to find Radar. So for now, we are in their hands. And in the hands of the Lord who, I pray, will see fit to bring a just end to these troubles, whatever that end might be. 

------------------------------------------------------

Cavan looked up as Scott re-entered the room. He set some files on his desk and peered at the folder in her lap. 

"Where are you now?" 

"Just finished November 22nd. Potter and Hawkeye are set to leave for Tokyo in the morning." Cavan watched as Scott shook his head, chuckling in amusement. "What?" 

"Isn't this strange? Delving into their lives like this – reading it almost as if it's real-time? When I hear you say "Potter" I picture this war-hardened veteran with a heart of gold, and "Hawkeye"...let's just say he must have been a character." Cavan nodded in agreement. 

"To say nothing of the good Father," she added. "He's certainly endearing." 

"After November 22nd the entries get less interesting," Scott said as he sorted through some papers. Finally he sat down and relaxed, leaning back in his chair. "Each entry mentions small happenings in the camp, but there's no solid information about Hawkeye or Potter – just worries about how they're doing. They don't hear from them at all until they return." 

"They return...?" Cavan asked questioningly, flipping through the entries. 

"Go to December 1st. 

Cavan did as he said and found the priest's first December diary entry. 

"Go on," Scott urged. Cavan began to read. 


	13. Mixed Blessings

[All MASH characters belong to Fox. I wanted to get this chapter out pretty quickly (for me at least) because this weekend I'm moving into a new house and starting a new job (!), and I'm not sure when I'm going to have a chance to set up my internet and post some more. For now, enjoy this chapter and know that more are coming. I love you all, and you should feel quite honored because my love is very strictly rationed out, much like winter clothing at the 4077th. Cheers!]

[IMPORTANT UPDATE - July 2009: I don't know if this thing will update the whole story by my simply editing this chapter or not, but says I can't upload chapters that are just 'author's notes,' so I'm just doing this, and maybe it'll work or not.

What I have to say it this: Thank you to everyone who has left such kind comments to this story - despite the fact that I haven't updated it in about 6 years. I had a long spate without internet, and then I went to law school, then I graduated, and I'm getting ready to take the bar.

I would like to finish this story. I know how it ends, but time and opportunity have not been on my side, and, like everyone else here I'm sure, being somewhat of a perfectionist, I want it to at least be decent. I'm hoping that perhaps I can bring an end to things in the weeks after the bar exam.

Again, thank you to everyone reading this. I love when, ever so often, new reviews pop up in my inbox - I know you guys have to dig through the archives to find this story, and I appreciate the effort and the kind feedback!!]

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From the personal papers of Father Francis John Patrick Mulcahy

__

Diary entry, December 2nd, 1951

To put it simply, it has been a long day. An almost 48-hour day to be precise. And to think, I thought it might be a day of celebration. And perhaps we might each be celebrating privately, but for the most part celebration has simply been overshadowed by this juggernaut we call a police action, and with the extreme fatigue that results from extreme stress and lack of sleep.

I'm not sure of the reason for my obtuseness. I suppose I'm just tired, but if the surgeons can press on through hours upon hours of unthinkable strain, then a simple priest can as well.

I mention celebration because a chopper arrived at eight o'clock yesterday morning – and that chopper contained not only Colonel Potter and Hawkeye, but our very own company clerk, Radar, as well. They joined us, to our great delight, in the mess tent for breakfast, and I don't believe I have ever seen the three of them quite so jocular. We poked and prodded them for details, but they fell to eating with such great enthusiasm (even Hawkeye!) – that I assume they hadn't eaten for a while.

Through their food-stuffed mouths I believe I heard the words "best ruse...inflicted upon the U.S. government," but I can't be sure. Every so often Colonel Potter, with crinkled eyes of glee, would pat Hawkeye on the back. And every so often Hawkeye would ruffle Radar's hair and mumble "master of espionage" or "Einstein of counter-intelligence," and then he would explode into fits of laughter (the kind of laughter that's heavily influenced by lack of sleep, I might add), with the Colonel joining in, and Radar chuckling self-consciously, his eyes darting between his two superiors.

But before we could hear a thorough explanation, Radar jumped up from his seat with a panicked look on his face. We all froze and stared at him, fearing what would come next.

"Choppers," he said. He wiped a hand across his mouth. "A lot of them."

"What's _a lot_, Radar?" Potter demanded, all seriousness now.

"Four...five...at least." The atmosphere in the room froze and my hand instinctually reached for my cross – at least I assume it did.

"Goddamnit," Potter grumbled, crumpling his napkin and tossing it aside. "There must have been an offensive, and without Radar here on the horn you had no news of it." The sound of multiple choppers filled the air and we all stood up and wordlessly rushed to meet the incoming wounded.

As I mentioned, I write this almost 48 hours later. There has been a five-hour break in our constant work (I cannot consider my job work, it is a necessity, a calling), but we hear there are more wounded on the way, and sooner than later. I intend to sleep for an hour, and then I will return to the post-op tent and wander among the wounded in their varying degrees of criticality. And perhaps I wasn't being truthful when I said that I would sleep. How can I sleep when I am needed? Yet, how can I do my best when I haven't slept in so long? I cannot reconcile the two, but such conundrums are my lot in life.

As for Radar, I suppose we'll eventually learn what happened in Tokyo. But for now it has fallen back on our list of priorities, although we all are thankful (a thousand times thankful, Lord!) to have him back among us, especially in these trying times. We may be pressed for energy, but the camp is running as smoothly as possible.

I'll end this now, either to sleep or to return to the post-op. I know I won't be the only one there.

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Cavan looked up at Scott with a mix of pleasure and confusion on her face.

"They found him!" she exclaimed, although she was immediately embarrassed at her tone of voice. "He's back in camp," she added in a more moderated voice.

"Indeed, he's back." Scott, already having read through the diaries, was now having the pleasure of watching Cavan discover each new development one at a time. He couldn't hide his smile.

"So..." Cavan started flipping through the papers again.

"You wouldn't want the mystery to end there, would you?" Scott asked her cryptically. Cavan looked up. "After all this, the tapes, the pictures, the documents, the diaries – you wouldn't want it to just stop suddenly, right here, would you?" Cavan gave him a suspicious look.

"What are you saying?" She flipped through more pages, looking for key words in each diary entry. "You're saying the Good Father doesn't tell us what happened in Tokyo?"

"That's what I'm saying. If you read on, this deluge of casualties lasts for days – by the time it ends, there's a gap in the entries that I'm assuming meant Mulcahy simply didn't feel like writing. And when the entries pick up again, the Radar incident seems to be forgotten, or at least other important things started happening. Ah..." Scott scratched his head absently as he thought, "Major Houlihan gets engaged, Major Burns goes a little nuts and gets shipped out and is replaced by a Boston Brahmin."

"Hmm." Cavan continued to flip through the diary entries, although she wasn't reading them anymore. Scott watched her worriedly, but suddenly she lifted her head, a pensive look in her eyes.

"Yeah, you're right."

"About what?"

"I'm glad we don't know what happened in Tokyo. I'm glad we're unraveling this mystery layer by layer, because each layer gets better, and I think that pattern will continue."

"Good! I was hoping you'd feel that way. And our next step?"

"Contacting Hawkeye, of course. We know that Potter's dead, and we can't locate Radar, so Hawkeye is our only connection with those missing days in Tokyo."

"Good plan. And what step do we have to take before that?"

"Um..." Cavan frowned, thinking. "I'll call Katharine first thing tomorrow and see if she can hunt up Captain Benjamin "Hawkeye" Pierce."

"Right...but there's something we have to do first." Cavan didn't notice Scott's grin as she wracked her brain for the correct answer.

"I don't know, what?" she conceded.

"Dinner. I'm starving. You up for it?"

"Of course," Cavan replied, laughing out loud. "One track mind, you know," she added, pointing to her head. Scott chuckled.

"Yeah," he added quietly. "Me, too."

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[And you, dear reader, you wouldn't want it to end so suddenly, would you? Stay with me as we delve deeper into the mystery. The best is yet to come!]

[2009 update - see message at top of page]


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